3   1822  01046  6704 


GARDENER 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


\ 


PS  172S 


3   1822  01046  6704 


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^U^T^  A^i^ 


PRAY  YOU,  SIR, 
WHOSE    DAUGHTER? 


BY 

HELEN  H.  GARDENER 

AUTHOR     OF 

"  Is  This  Your  Son,  My  Lord  r"    "  Pushed  by  Unseen  Hands,"  "A  Thought- 
less Yes,"     "Men,   Women  and  Gods,"    "Facts  and 
Fictions  of  Life,"    Etc. 


NEW  YORK 

R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 

9  AND  II   EAST  l6TH  STREET 


Copyright  1892 

BY 

HELEN   H.   GARDENER 

All  Hights  Reserved 


Xife's  Gifts. 

I  saw  a  woman  sleeping.  In  her  sleep  she  dreampt  Life 
stood  before  her,  and  held  in  each  hand  a  gift  —  in  the  one 
Love,  in  the  other  Freedom.  And  she  said  to  the  woman, 
"Choose!" 

And  the  woman  waited  long ;  and  she  said :  "  Freedom !  " 
And  Life  said,  "  Thou  hast  well  chosen.  If  thou  hadst  said, 
*  Love,'  I  would  have  given  thee  that  thou  didst  ask  for;  aud 
I  would  have  gone  from  thee,  and  returned  to  thee  no  more. 
Now,  the  day  will  come  when  I  shall  return.  In  that  day  I 
shall  bear  both  gifts  in  one  hand."  I  heard  the  woman 
laugh  in  her  sleep. 

Olive  Schemer's  Breams. 


With  the  love  and  admiration  of  the  Author, 

Zo  hex  Ibusbatto, 

Who  is  ever  at  once  her  first,  most  severe,  and  most  sympathetic  critic, 

whose  encouragement  and  interest  in  her  work  never  flags;  whose 

abiding  belief  in  human  rights,  without  sex  limitations,  and  in 

equality  of  opportunity  leaves  scant  room  inhis  great  soul 

to  harbor  patience  toith  sex    domination  in  a  land 

tvhich  boasts  of  freedom  for  all,  and  embodies  its 

symbol  of  Liberty  in    the  form    of  the   only 

legally    disqualified    and    unrepresented 

class  to  be  found  xipon  its  shores. 


preface. 

In  the  following  story  the  writer  shows  us  what  pov- 
erty and  dependence  are  in  their  revolting  outward  as- 
pects, as  well  as  in  their  crippling  effects  on  all  the  ten- 
der sentiments  of  the  human  soul.  Whilst  the  many  suf- 
fer for  want  of  the  decencies  of  life,  the  few  have  no 
knowledge  of  such  conditions. 

They  require  the  poor  to  keep  clean,  where  water  by 
landlords  is  considered  a  luxury  ;  to  keep  their  garments 
whole  where  they  have  naught  but  rags  to  stitch  together, 
twice  and  thrice  worn  threadbare.  The  improvidence  of 
the  poor  as  a  valid  excuse  for  ignorance,  poverty,  and 
vice,  is  as  inadequate  as  is  the  providence  of  the  rich, 
for  their  virtue,  luxury,  and  power.  The  artificial  con- 
ditions of  society  are  based  on  false  theories  of  govern- 
ment, religion,  and  morals,  and  not  upon  the  decrees  of 
a  God. 

In  this  little  volume  we  have  a  picture,  too,  of  what 
the  world  would  call  a  happy  family,  in  which  a  nat- 
urally strong,  honest  woman  is  shrivelled  into  a  mere  echo 
of  her  husband,  and  the  popular  sentiment  of  the  class  to 
which  she  belongs.  The  daughter  having  been  educated 
in  a  college  with  young  men,  and  tasted  of  the  tree  of 
knowledge,  and,  like  the  Gods,  knowing  good  and  evil, 
can  no  longer  square  her  life  by  opinions  she   has  out- 


vi  Ipreface. 

grown  ;  hence  with  her  parents  there  is  friction,  struggle, 
open  revolt,  though  conscientious  and  respectful  withal. 

Three  girls  belonging  to  different  classes  in  society  ; 
each  illustrates  the  false  philosophy  on  which  woman's 
character  is  based,  and  each  in  a  different  way,  in  the 
supreme  moment  of  her  life,  shows  the  necessity  of  self- 
reliance  and  self-support. 

As  the  wrongs  of  society  can  be  more  deeply  impressed 
on  a  large  class  of  readers  in  the  form  of  fiction  than 
by  essays,  sermons,  or  the  facts  of  science,  I  hail  with 
pleasure  all  such  attempts  by  the  young  writers  of  our 
day.  The  slave  has  had  his  novelist  and  poet,  the 
farmer  his,  the  victims  of  ignorance  and  poverty  theirs, 
but  up  to  this  time  the  refinements  of  cruelty  suffered  by 
intelligent,  educated  women,  have  never  been  painted  in 
glowing  colors,  so  that  the  living  picture  could  be  seen 
and  understood.  It  is  easy  to  rouse  attention  to  the 
grosser  forms  of  suffering  and  injustice,  but  the  humilia- 
tions of  spirit  are  not  so  easily  described  and  appre- 
ciated. 

A  class  of  earnest  reformers  have,  for  the  last  fifty 
years,  in  the  press,  the  pulpit,  and  on  the  platform,  with 
essays,  speeches,  and  constitutional  arguments  before  leg- 
islative assemblies,  demanded  the  complete  emancipation 
of  women  from  the  political,  religious,  and  social  bond- 
age she  now  endures  ;  but  as  yet  few  see  clearly  the  need 
of  larger  freedom,  and  the  many  maintain  a  stolid  indif- 
ference to  the  demand. 

I  have  long  waited  and  watched  for  some  woman 
to    arise   to    do    for    her   sex  what  Mrs.   Stowe  did  for 


preface.  vii 

the  black  race  in  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  a  book  that  did 
more  to  rouse  the  national  conscience  than  all  the  glow- 
ing appeals  and  constitutional  arguments  that  agitated 
our  people  during  half  a  century.  If,  from  an  objective 
point  of  view,  a  writer  could  thus  eloquently  portray  the 
sorrows  of  a  subject  race,  how  much  more  graphically 
should  some  woman  describe  the  degradation  of  sex. 

In  Helen  Gardener's  stories,  I  see  the  promise,  in 
the  near  future,  of  such  a  work  of  fiction,  that  shall 
paint  the  awful  facts  of  woman's  position  in  living  colors 
that  all  must  see  and  feel.  The  civil  and  canon  law, 
state  and  church  alike,  make  the  mothers  of  the  race 
a  helpless,  ostracised  class,  pariahs  of  a  corrupt  civil- 
ization. In  view  of  woman's  multiplied  wrongs,  my 
heart  oft  echoes  the  Russian  poet  who  said :  * '  God 
has  forgotten  where  he  hid  the  key  to  woman's  emanci- 
pation." Those  who  know  the  sad  facts  of  woman's  life, 
so  carefully  veiled  from  society  at  large,  will  not  consider 
the  pictures  in  this  story  overdrawn. 

The  shallow  and  thoughtless  may  know  nothing  of 
their  existence,  while  the  helpless  victims,  not  being  able 
to  trace  the  causes  of  their  misery,  are  in  no  position 
to  state  their  wrongs  themselves. 

Nevertheless  all  the  author  describes  in  this  sad  story, 
and  worse  still,  is  realized  in  every-day  life,  and  the 
dark  shadows  dim  the  sunshine  in  every  household. 

The  apathy  of  the  public  to  the  wrongs  of  woman 
is  clearly  'seen  at  this  hour,  in  propositions  now  under 
consideration  in  the  Legislature  of  New  York.  Though 
two    infamous    bills  have    been    laid   before  select  com- 


viii  preface. 

mittees,  one  to  legalize  prostitution,  and  one  to  lower 
the  age  of  consent,  the  people  have  been  alike  ignorant 
and  indifferent  to  these  measures.  When  it  was  pro- 
posed to  take  a  fragment  of  Central  Park  for  a  race 
course,  a  great  public  meeting  of  protest  was  called 
at  once,  and  hundreds  of  men  hastened  to  Albany  to 
defeat  the  measure. 

But  the  proposed  invasion  of  the  personal  rights  of 
woman,  and  the  wholesale  desecration  of  childhood  has 
scarce  created  a  ripple  on  the  surface  of  society.  The 
many  do  not  know  what  laws  their  rulers  are  making, 
and  the  few  do  not  care,  so  long  as  they  do  not  feel 
the  iron  teeth  of  the  law  in  their  own  flesh.  Not 
one  father  in  the  House  or  Senate  would  willingly  have 
his  wife,  sister,  or  daughter  subject  to  these  infamous 
bills  proposed  for  the  daughters  of  the  people.  Alas  ! 
for  the  degradation  of  sex,  even  in  this  republic.  When 
one  may  barter  away  all  that  is  precious  to  pure  and 
innocent  childhood  at  the  age  of  ten  years,  you  may 
as  well  talk  of  a  girl's  safety  with  wild  beasts  in  the 
tangled  forests  of  Africa,  as  in  the  present  civilizations 
of  England  and  America,  the  leading  nations  on  the 
globe. 

Some  critics  say  that  every  one  knows  and  condemns 
these  facts  in  our  social  life,  and  that  we  do  not  need 
fiction  to  intensify  the  public  disgust.  Others  say,  Why 
call  the  attention  of  the  young  and  the  innocent  to  the 
existence  of  evils  they  should  never  know.  The  majority 
of  people  do  not  watch  legislative  proceedings. 

To   keep  our   sons  and  daughters  innocent,  we  must 


preface.  ix 

warn  them  of  the  dangers  that  beset  their  path  on  every 
side. 

Ignorance  under  no  circumstances  ensures  safety. 
Honor  protected  by  knowledge,  is  safer  than  innocence 
protected  by  ignorance. 

A  few  brave  women  are  laboring  to-day  to  secure  for 
their  less  capable,  less  thoughtful,  less  imaginative  sis- 
ters, a  recognition  of  a  true  womanhood  based  on  indi- 
vidual rights.  There  is  just  one  remedy  for  the  social 
complications  based  on  sex,  and  that  is  equality  for 
woman  in  every  relation  in  life. 

Men  must  learn  to  respect  her  as  an  equal  factor  in 
civilization,  and  she  must  learn  to  respect  herself  as 
mother  of  the  race.  Womanhood  is  the  great  primal 
fact  of  her  existence ;  marriage  and  maternity,  its 
incidents. 

This  story  shows  that  the  very  traits  of  character 
which  society  (whose  opinions  are  made  and  modified 
by  men)  considers  most  important  and  charming  in 
woman  to  ensure  her  success  in  social  life,  are  the  very 
traits  that  ultimately  lead  to  her  failure. 

Self-effacement,  self-distrust,  dependence  and  desire  to 
please,  compliance,  deference  to  the  judgment  and  will 
of  another,  are  what  make  young  women,  in  the  opinion 
of  these  believers  in  sex  domination,  most  agreeable ; 
but  these  are  the  very  traits  that  lead  to  her  ruin. 

The  danger  of  such  training  is  well  illustrated  in  the 
sad  end  of  Ettie  Berton.  When  the  trials  and  tempta- 
tions of  life  come,  then  each  one  must  decide  for  herself, 
and  hold  in  her  own  hands  the  reins  of  action.      Edu- 


x  preface. 

cated  -women  of  the  passing  generation  chafe  under  the 
old  order  of  tilings,  but,  like  Mrs.  Foster  in  the  present 
volume,  are  not  strong  enough  to  swim  up  stream.  But 
girls  like  Gertrude,  who  in  the  college  curriculum  have 
measured  their  powers  and  capacities  with  strong  young 
men  and  found  themselves  their  equals,  have  outgrown 
this  superstition  of  divinely  ordained  sex  domination. 
The  divine  rights  of  kings,  nobles,  popes,  and  bishops 
have  long  been  questioned,  and  now  that  of  sex  is  under 
consideration  and  from  the  signs  of  the  times,  with  all 
other  forms  of  class  and  caste,  it  is  destined  soon  to  pass 
away. 

Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton. 


ll>nt\>  H)ou,  Sir, 

Whose  daughter? 


i. 


To  say  that  Mrs.  Foster  was  cruel,  that 
she  lacked  sympathy  with  the  unfortunate, 
or  that  she  was  selfish,  would  be  to  state 
only  the  dark  half  of  a  truism  that  has  a 
wider  application  than  class  or  sex  could 
give  it;  a  truism  whose  boundary  lines, 
indeed,  are  set  by  nothing  short  of  the 
ignorance  of  human  beings  hedged  in  by 
prejudice  and  handicapped  by  lack  of  im- 
agination. So  when  she  sat,  with  dainty 
folded  hands  whose  jeweled  softness  found 
fitting  background  on  the  crimson  velvet  of 
her  trailing  gown,  and  announced  that  she 
could  endure  everything  associated  with, 
and   felt   deep   sympathy   for,  the    poor  if 


2  pra\?  l)ou,  Sir,  THflboae  BaugbtecT 

it  were  not  for  the  besetting  sin  of  unclean- 
liness  that  found  its  home  almost  invariably 
where  poverty  dwelt,  it  would  be  unjust 
to  pronounce  her  hard-hearted  or  base. 

"It  is  all  nonsense  to  say  that  the  poor 
need  be  so  dirty,"  she  announced,  as  she 
held  her  splendid  feather  fan  in  one  hand 
and  caressed  the  dainty  tips  of  the  white 
plumes  with  the  tips  of  fingers  only  less 
dainty  and  white. 

"I  have  rarely  ever  seen  a  really  poor 
man,  woman,  or  child  who  was  at  the  same 
time  really  clean  looking  in  person,  and 
as  to  clothes  —  " 

She  broke  off  with  an  impatient  and  dis- 
gusted little  shrug,  as  if  to  say — what  was 
quite  true — that  even  the  touch  of  properly 
descriptive  words  held  for  her  more  soilure 
than  she  cared  to  bear  contact  with. 

John  Martin  laughed.  Then  he  essayed 
to  banter  his  hostess,  addressing  his  re- 
marks meanwhile  to  her  daughter. 

"One  could  not  imagine  your  mamma  a 
victim  of  poverty  and  hunger,  much  less 
of  dirt,  Miss  Gertrude,"  he  began  slowly; 
"but  even  that  sumptuous  velvet  gown  of 


Ipras  l!?ou,  Sir,  IGlbosc  Daugbtcrt  3 

hers  would  grow  to  look  more  or  less — let 
us  say — rusty,  in  time,  I  fear,  if  it  were  the 
only  costume  she  possessed,  and  she  were 
obliged  to  eat,  cook,  wash,  iron,  sew,  and 
market  in  it." 

The  two  ladies  laughed  merrily  at  the 
droll  suggestion,  and  Miss  Gertrude  pursed 
up  her  lips  and  developed  a  decided  squint 
in  her  eyes  as  she  turned  them  upon  the 
folds  of  her  mother's  robe.  Then  she  took 
up  Mr.  Martin's  description  where  the  laugh 
had  broken  in  upon  it. 

"  Too  true,  too  true,"  she  drawled ;  "  and 
if  she  dusted  the  furniture  a  week  or  so 
with  that  fan,  I'm  afraid  it  would  lose  more 
or  less  of  its  —  gloss.  Mamma  quite  prides 
herself  upon  the  delicate  peach-fuzz-bloom, 
so  to  speak,  of  those  feathers.  Just  look  at 
them ! "  The  girl  reached  over  and  took 
the  fan  from  her  mother's  lap.  She  spread 
the  fine  plumes  to  their  fullest  capacity,  and 
held  them  under  the  rays  of  the  brass  lamp 
that  stood  near  their  guest.  Then  she 
made  a  flourish  with  it  in  the  direction  of 
the  music  stand,  as  if  she  were  intent  upon 
whisking   the  last  speck  of  dust  from   the 


4  praE  Jj)ou,  Sir,  Tldboac  DauflbtcrT 

sheets  of  Tannhaiiser  that  lay  on  its  top. 
A  little  cry  of  alarm  and  protest  escaped 
Mrs.  Foster's  lips  and  she  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  rescue  the  beloved  fan. 

w  Gertrude!  how  can  you?"  She  settled 
back  comfortably  against  the  cushions  of 
the  low  divan  with  her  rescued  treasure 
once  more  waving"  in  gentle  gracefulness 
before  her. 

w  Oh,  no,"  she  protested.  "  Of  course 
one  could  not  work  or  live  constantly  in  one 
or  two  gowns  and  look  fresh,  but  one 
could  look  and  be  clean  and  —  and  whole. 
A  patch  is  not  pretty  I  admit,  but  it  is  a  de- 
cided improvement  upon  a  bare  elbow." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  smiled  her 
guest ;  "  I  don't  believe  I  ever  saw  a  patch 
in  all  my  life  that  would  be  an  improvement 
upon — upon  —  "  He  glanced  at  the  lovely 
round  white  arms  before  him,  and  all  three 
laughed.  Mrs.  Foster  thought  of  how  many 
Russian  baths  and  massage  treatments  had 
tended  to  give  the  exquisite  curve  and 
tint  to  her  arm. 

tf  Then  beside,"  smiled  Mr.  Martin,  w  a 
rent  or  hole  may  be  an  immediate  accident, 


pras  13ou,  Sir,  IKflbose  5>auabter7  5 

liable  to  happen  to  the  best  of  us.  A  patch 
looks  like  premeditated  poverty."  Gertrude 
laughed  brightly,  but  her  mother  did  not 
appear  to  have  heard.  She  reverted  to  the 
previous  insinuation. 

"Oh,  well;  that  is  not  fair  1  You  know 
what  I  mean.  I'm  talking  of  elbows  that 
burst  or  wear  out — not  about  those  that 
never  were  intended  to  be  in.  Then,  be- 
sides, it  is  not  the  elbow  I  object  to;  it  is 
the  hole  one  sees  it  through.  It  tells  a  tale 
of  shiftlessness  and  personal  untidiness  that 
saps  all  sympathy  for  the  poverty  that  com- 
pelled the  long  wearing  of  the  garment." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Mrs.  Foster,"  said  Mar- 
tin, slowly,  "  I  wonder  if  you  have  any  idea 
of  a  grade  of  poverty  that  simply  can't  be 
either  whole  or  clean.     Did — ?" 

"I'll  give  up  the  whole,  but  I  won't  give 
in  on  the  clean.  I  can  easily  see  how  a 
woman  could  be  too  tired,  too  ill,  or  too 
busy  to  mend  a  garment;  I  can  fancy  her 
not  knowing  how  to  sew,  or  not  having 
thread,  needles,  and  patches;  but,  surely, 
surely,  Mr.  Martin,  no  one  living  is  too  poor 
to  keep  clean.     Water  is  free,  and  it  doesn't 


6  Prag  H?ou,  Sir,  "Oabose  2>augbter? 

take    long    to   take    a   bath.      Besides — " 

Gertrude  looked  at  her  mother  with  a 
smile.  Then  she  said  with  her  sarcastic 
little  drawl  again  :  — 

"Russian,  or  Turkish?" 

""Well,  but  fun  and  nonsense  aside,  Ger- 
trude," said  her  mother,  "a  plain  hot  bath 
at  home  would  make  a  new  creature  out 
of  half  the  wretches  one  sees  or  reads  of, 
and — " 

"Porcelain  lined  bath-tub,  hot  and  cold 
water  furnished  at  all  hours.  Bath-room 
adjoining  each  sleeping  apartment,"  laughed 
Mr.  Martin.  ""What  a  delightful  idea  you 
have  of  abject  poverty,  Mrs.  Foster.  I  do 
wish  Fred  could  have  heard  that  last  re- 
mark of  yours.  I  went  with  his  clerk  one 
day  to  collect  rents  down  in  Mulberry 
Street.  He  had  the  collection  of  the  rents' 
for  the  Feedour  estate  on  his  hands  —  " 

"What's  that  about  the  rents  of  the 
Feedour  estate?"  inquired  the  head  of  the 
house,  extending  his  hand  to  their  guest 
as  he  entered.  Mrs.  Foster  put  out  her 
hand  and  her  husband  touched  the  tips  of 
her    lingers    to    his    lips,   while    Gertrude 


1Pra£  ^ou,  Str,  "Wllbose  BaugbterT  7 

slipped  her  arm  through  her  father's  and 
drew  him  to  a  seat  beside  her.  Her  eyes 
were  dancing,  and  she  showed  a  double  row 
of  the  whitest  of  teeth. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Martin  was  just  explaining  to 
mamma  how  your  clerk  collects  rent  for  the 
porcelain  bath-tubs  in  the  Feedour  property 
down  in  Mulberry  Street.  Mamma  thinks 
that  bath-rooms  should  be  free  —  hot  and 
cold  water,  and  all  convenient  appoint- 
ments." 

Fred  Foster  looked  at  their  guest  for 
a  moment,  and  then  both  men  burst  into 
a  hearty  laugh. 

"I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,"  pro- 
tested Mrs.  Foster.  "Unless  you  are  guy- 
ing me  for  thinking  Mr.  Martin  in  earnest 
about  the  tubs  being  rented.  I  suppose, 
of  course,  the  bath-rooms  go  with  the  apart- 
ments, and  one  rent  covers  the  whole  of  it. 
In  which  case,  I  still  insist  that  there  is 
no  reason  why  the  poor  can't  be  clean,  and 
if  they  have  only  one  suit  of  clothes,  they 
can  wash  them  out  at  night  and  have  them 
dry  next  morning." 

The  men  laughed  again. 


8  lprag  12ou,  Sir,  Wbose  ©augfcter? 

K  Gertrude,  has  your  mamma  read  her 
essay  yet  before  the  Ladies'  Artistic  and 
Ethical  Club  on  the  ?  Self-inflicted  Sorrows 
of  the  Poor?'"  asked  Mr.  Foster,  pinching 
his  daughter's  chin,  and  allowing  a  chuckle 
of  humorous  derision  to  escape  him  as  he 
glanced  at  their  guest. 

KNo,"  said  the  girl,  a  trifle  uneasily; 
"Lizzie  Feedour  read  last  time.  Mamma's 
is  next,  and  she  has  read  her  paper  to  me. 
It  is  just  as  good  as  it  can  be.  Better  than 
half  the  essays  used  to  be  at  college,  not 
excepting  Mr.  Holt's  prize  thesis  on  eco- 
nomics. I  wish  the  poor  people  could  hear 
it.  She  speaks  very  kindly  of  their  faults 
even  while  criticising  them.     You — " 

"Don't  visit  the  tenement  houses  of  the 
Feedour  estate,  dear,  until  after  you  read 
your  paper  to  the  club,"  laughed  her 
husband,  "or  your  essay  won't  take  half 
so  well.  College  theses  and  cold  facts  are 
not  likely  to  be  more  than  third  cousins ;  eh, 
Martin?  I'm  sure  the  part  on  cleanliness 
would  be  easier  for  her  to  manage  in 
discussion  before  she  visited  the  Spillini 
family,  for  example." 


IPrag  lou,  Sir,  limbose  H>augbtcr?  9 

"Which  one  is  that,  Fred?"  asked  Mr. 
Martin,  a  droll  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "The 
family  of  eight,  with  Irish  mother  and 
Italian  father,  who  live  in  one  room  and 
take  boarders?" 

There  was  a  little  explosive  "oh"  of 
protest  from  Gertrude,  while  her  mother 
laughed  delightedly. 

"  Mr.  Martin,  yon  are  so  perfectly  absurd. 
Why  didn't  you  say  that  the  room  was  only 
ten  by  fifteen  feet  and  had  but  one  win- 
dow!" 

"Because  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  so  big 
as  that,  and  there  is  no  outside  window 
at  all,"  said  he,  quite  gravely.  "And  their 
only  bath-tub  for  the  entire  crowd  is  a 
small  tin  basin  also  used  to  wash  dishes  in." 

"W-h-a-t !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Foster,  as  if 
she  were  beginning  to  suspect  their  guest's 
sanity,  for  she  recognized  that  his  mood  had 
changed  from  one  of  banter. 

The  portiere  was  drawn  aside,  and  other 
guests  announced.  As  Mrs.  Foster  swept 
forward  to  meet  them,  Gertrude  grasped  her 
father's  arm  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with 
something  very  like  terror  in  her  own. 


10  H>ra£  !?ou,  Sir,  TWlbose  ©augbter? 

"Papa,"  she  said  hastily,  in  an  intense 
undertone;  "Papa,  is  he  in  earnest?  Do 
the  Feedour  girls  collect  rent  from  such 
awful  poverty  as  that?  Do  eight  human 
beings  eat  and  sleep  —  live  —  in  one  room 
anywhere  in  a  Christian  country?  Does — ?" 

Her  father  took  both  of  her  hands  in  his 
own  for  a  moment  and  looked  steadily  into 
her  face. 

"Hundreds  of  them,  darling,"  he  said, 
gently.  Don't  stare  at  Miss  Feedour  that 
way.  Go  speak  to  her.  She  is  looking 
toward  us,  and  your  mother  has  left  her 
with  Martin  quite  long  enough.  He  is  in  an 
ugly  humor  to-night.  Go  —  no,  come,"  he 
said,  slipping  her  hand  in  his  arm  and  draw- 
ing her  forward  through  the  long  rooms  to 
where  the  group  of  guests  were  greeting 
each  other  with  that  easy  familiarity  which 
told  of  frequent  intercourse  and  community 
of  interests  and  social  information. 


fcras  lou,  Sir,  Timbose  Daughter  7  U 


n. 


Two  hours  later  Gertrude  found  herself 
near  a  low  window  seat  upon  which  sat 
John  Martin.  She  could  not  remember 
When  he  had  not  been  her  father's  closest 
friend,  and  she  had  no  idea  why  his  moods 
had  changed  so  of  late.  He  was  much  less 
free  and  fatherly  with  her.  She  wondered 
now  if  he  despised  her  because  she  knew  so 
little  of  the  real  woes  of  a  real  world  about 
her,  while  she,  in  common  with  those  of 
her  station,  sighed  so  heavily  over  the 
needs  of  a  more  distant  or  less  repulsive 
human  swarm. 

"Will  you  take  me  to  see  the  Spillini 
family  some  day  soon,  Mr  Martin,"  she 
asked,  seating  herself  by  his  side.  "  Papa 
said  that  you  were  telling  the  truth  —  were 
not  joking  as  I  thought  at  first." 

Her  eyes  were  following  the  graceful 
movements  of  Lizzie  Feedour,  as  that  young 


12  iprag  ll?ou,  Sir,  Wbose  2>au0bter? 

lady  turned  the  leaves  of  a  handsome  vol- 
ume that  lay  on  the  table  before  her,  and 
a  gentleman  with  whom  she  was  discussing 
its  merits  and  defects. 

"I  don't  believe  the  call  would  be  a 
pleasure  on  either  side,"  said  Mr.  Martin, 
brusquely,  "unless  we  sent  word  the  day 
before  and  had  some  of  the  family  moved 
out  and  a  chair  taken  in." 

The  girl  turned  her  eyes  slowly  upon 
him,  but  she  did  not  speak.  The  color 
began  to  climb  into  his  face  and  dye  the 
very  roots  of  his  hair.  She  wondered  why. 
Her  own  face  was  rather  paler  than  usual 
and  her  eyes  were  very  serious. 

"You  don't  want  to  take  me,"  she  said. 
I  wonder  why  men  always  try  to  keep  girls 
from  knowing  things — from  learning  of  the 
world  as  it  is  —  and  then  blame  them  for 
their  ignorance !  You  naturally  think  I  am 
a  very  silly,  light  girl,  but — " 

A  great  panic  overtook  John  Martin's 
heart.  He  could  hardly  keep  back  the 
tears.  He  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  face 
again,  but  he  did  not  know  just  what  he 
said. 


Iprag  lou,  Sir,  Wbese  Daugbter?  13 

"I  do  not — I  do  not!  You  are — I — I — 
should  hate  to  be  the  one  to  introduce  you 
to  such  a  view  of  life.  I  was  an  old  fool  to 
talk  as  I  did  this  evening.     I — " 

"Oh,  that  is  it!"  exclaimed  Gertrude, 
relieved.  "You  found  me  ignorant,  and 
content  because  I  was  ignorant,  and  you 
regret  that  you  have  struck  a  chord — a 
serious  chord — where  only  make-believe  or 
merry  ones  were  ever  struck  between  us 
before." 

John  Martin  fidgeted. 

"No,  it  is  not  that.  I  would  like  to 
strike  the  first  serious  chord  for  you — in 
your  heart,  Gertrude." 

He  had  called  her  Gertrude  for  years. 
Indeed  the  Miss  upon  his  lips  was  of  very 
recent  date,  but  there  was  a  meaning  in  the 
name  just  now  as  he  spoke  it  that  gave  the 
girl  a  distinct  shock.  She  felt  that  he  was 
covering  retreat  in  one  direction  by  a  men- 
dacious advance  in  another.  She  arose 
suddenly. 

"Lizzie  Feedour  is  looking  her  best  to- 
night," she  said.  "She  grows  handsomer 
every  day." 


14  Iprag  l^ou,  Sir,  Wlbose  Daughter? 

She  had  moved  forward  a  step,  but  he 
caught  the  hand  that  hung  by  her  side. 
She  faced  him  with  a  look  of  mingled  pro- 
test and  surprise  in  her  face ;  but  when  her 
eyes  met  his,  she  understood. 

"  Gertrude,  darling !  "  was  all  he  could 
say.  This  time  the  blood  dyed  her  face  and 
a  mist  blinded  her  for  a  moment.  She  re- 
membered feeling  glad  that  her  back  was 
turned  to  everyone  but  him,  and  that  the 
window  drapery  hid  his  nice  from  the 
others,  for  the  intensity  of  appeal  touched 
with  the  faintest  shimmer  of  happiness  and 
hope  told  so  plain  a  story  that  she  felt, 
rather  than  thought,  how  absurd  it  would 
look  to  anyone  else.  She  did  not  realize 
why  it  seemed  less  absurd  to  her.  She 
drew  her  hand  away  and  the  color  died  out 
of  his  face.  Her  own  was  burning.  She 
had  turned  to  leave  the  room  when  his  dis- 
appointed face  swam  before  her  eyes  again. 
She  put  out  her  hand  quickly  as  if  bidding 
him  good-night  and  drew  him  toward  the 
door.     He  moved  beside  her  as  in  a  dream. 

"After  you  take  me  to  see  the  Spillini 
family,"  she  said,  trying  to  appear  natural 


ftras  i)ou,  Sir,  Whose  Dauflbter?  15 

to  any  eyes  that  might  be  upon  her,  "  we  — 
I — "  They  had  reached  the  portiere.  She 
drew  it  aside  and  he  stepped  beyond. 

"There  is  no  companionship  between  two 
people  who  look  upon  life  so  unequally. 
Those  who  know  all  about  the  world  that 
contains  the  Spillini  family  and  those  who 
know  nothing  of  such  a  world  are  very  far 
apart  in  thought  and  in  development.  There 
is  no  mental  comradeship.  I  feel  very  far 
from  my  father  to-night  for  the  first  time  — 
mamma  and  I.  I  have  looked  at  her  all  the 
evening  in  wonder — and  at  him.  I  wonder 
how  they  have  contrived  to  live  so  far  apart. 
How  could  he  help  sharing  his  views  and 
knowledge  of  life  with  her,  if  he  thinks  her 
and  wishes  her  to  be  his  real  companion  and 
comrade.     I  could  not  live  that  way." 

She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  newer, 
nearer  question,  in  contemplating  the  prob- 
lem that  had  startled  her  earlier  in  the 
evening.  John  Martin  thought  it  was  all 
a  bit  of  kind-hearted  acting  to  cover  his 
retreat.  He  dropped  her  hand.  A  man- 
servant was  holding  his  coat.  He  thrust 
his  arms  in  and  took  his  hat. 


16  IPrag  13ou,  Sir,  Wbose  S>augbtet? 

"Will  you  take  me  to  see  the  Spillini 
family  to-morrow  f  "  asked  a  soft  voice  from 
the  portiere.  A  great  wave  of  joy  rushed 
over  John  Martin.     He  did  not  know  why. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  was  so  dis- 
tinctly hapjyy  that  the  man-servant  stared. 
The  folds  of  the  portiere  fell  together  and 
John  Martin  passed  out  onto  Fifth  Avenue, 
in  an  ecstasy. 

He  is  willing  to  share  his  knowledge  of 
life  with  me  —  of  life  as  he  sees  and  knows 
it  —  she  thought,  as  sne  lay  awake  chat  night. 
He  does  not  wish  to  live  on  one  plane  and 
have  me  live  on  another.  That  looks  like 
real  love.  Poor  mamma!  Poor  papa! 
How  far  apart  they  are.  To  him  life  is  a 
real  thing.  He  knows  its  meaning  and 
what  it  holds.  She  only  knows  a  shell  that 
is  furbished  up  and  polished  to  attract  the 
eye  of  children.  It  is  as  if  he  were  read- 
ing a  book  to  her  in  a  language  he  under- 
stood and  she  did  not.  The  sound  would 
be  its  entire  message  to  her,  while  he  gath- 
ered in  and  kept  to  himself  all  the  meaning 
of  the  words  —  the  force  of  the  thoughts. 
How  can  they  bear   such  isolation.     How 


prag  ]!?out  Str,  mbose  2)augbter7  17 

can  they?  she  thought  with  a  new  feeling 
of  passionate  protest  that  mingled  with  her 
dreams. 


18  ff»ra$  H?ou,  Sir,  tmbose  Daughter? 


III. 

"  Sure  an'  I'd  like  to  die  meself  if  dyin' 
wasn't  so  costly,"  remarked  Mrs.  Spillini,  as 
she  gazed  with  tear-stained  eyes  at  the  little 
body  that  occupied  the  only  chair  in  the  dis- 
mal room.  "  Do  the  best  we  kin,  buryin'  the 
baby  is  goin'  to  cost  more  than  we  made  all 
winter  out  o'  all  three  boarders.  Havin'  the 
baby  cost  a  dreadful  lot  altogether,  an'  now 
it's  dyin's  a  dreadful  pull  agin." 

Gertrude  Foster  opened  her  Russian 
leather  purse  and  Mrs.  Spillini's  eyes 
brightened  shrewdly.  There  was  no  need 
for  the  hesitancy  and  choice  of  words  that 
gave  the  young  girl  so  much  care  and  pain. 
Familiarity  with  all  the  mean  and  gross  of 
life  from  childhood  until  one  is  the  mother 
of  six  living  and  four  dead  children,  does 
not  leave  the  finest  ed«;e  of  sentiment  and 
pride  upon  the  poverty-cursed  victims  of 
fate. 


IPrav  l)ou,  Sir,  Idbose  Daugbter?  19 

"  If  you  would  allow  me  to  leave  a  mere 
trifle  of  money  for  you  to  use  for  the  baby, 
I  don't  —  it  is  only  —  "  began  Gertrude; 
but  the  ready  hand  had  reached  out  for  the 
money  and  a  quick  *  Thanky  mum ;  much 
obliged  "  had  ended  the  transaction. 

"I  shall  not  tell  mamma  that"  thought 
Gertrude,  and  she  did  not  look  at  John  Mar- 
tin. It  was  her  first  glimpse  into  a  grade 
of  life  to  which  all  things,  even  birth  and 
death,  take  on  a  strictly  commercial  aspect; 
where  not  only  the  edge  of  sentiment  is 
dulled  by  dire  necessity,  but  where  the 
sentiment  itself  is  buried  utterly  beneath 
the  incrustations  of  an  ignorance  that  is 
too  dumb  and  abject  to  learn,  and  a  poverty 
that  is  too  insistant  to  recognize  its  own 
ignorance  and  degradation. 

"Won't  you  set  down?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Spillini,  as  with  a  sudden  movement  she 
slid  the  small  corpse  onto  the  floor  undei 
the  edge  of  the  table.  "  I'd  a'  ast  you  be- 
fore, but  —  " 

"  O,  dont !  "  exclaimed  the  girl ;  but  before 
her  natural  impulse  to  stoop  and  gather  up 


20  fl>ra£  jjou,  Sir,  Wbose  2>augbter? 

the  small  bundle  had  found  action  possible, 
John  Martin  had  placed  it  on  the  table. 

w  Oh,  Lord ;  don't !  "  exclaimed  the  woman, 
in  sudden  dismay.  "  The  boarders  'd  kick  if 
they  was  to  see  it  tliere.  Boarders  is  differ- 
ent from  the  family.  "We  could  ate  affen 
the  table  afther,  but  boarders  —  boarders'd 
kick." 

"Could  —  do  you  think  of  anything  else 
we  could  do  for  you?"  inquired  Gertrude, 
faintly,  as  she  held  open  the  door  and  tried 
to  think  she  was  not  dizzy  and  sick  from 
the  dreadful,  polluted  air,  and  the  shock  of 
the  revelation,  with  all  that  it  implied,  be- 
fore her. 

Four  dirty  faces,  and  as  many  ragged 
bodies,  were  too  close  to  her  for  comfort. 
There  was  a  vile  stew  cooking  on  the  stove. 
The  air  was  heavy  and  foul  with  it.  Ger- 
trude distinctly  felt  the  greasy  moisture  on 
her  kid  gloves  as  they  touched  each  other. 

"]No,  I  don't  know's  they's  anything  more 
you  can  do,"  replied  the  passive,  hopeless 
wreck  of  what  it  was  almost  sacrilege  to 
call  womanhood.  "I  don't  know's  they's 
anything  more   you    could  do   unless   you 


Iptag  lt>ou,  Sir,  TIClbose  ©augbtet?  21 

could  let  the  boarders  come  in  now.  They 
ain't  got  but  a  little  over  ten  minutes  to  eat 
in,  an'  dinner's  ready,"  she  replied,  as 
she  lifted  the  pot  of  steaming  stuff  into 
the  middle  of  the  table  and  laid  two  tin 
plates,  a  large  knife  and  a  bunch  of  iron 
forks  and  spoons  beside  it. 

"Turn  that  chair  to  the  wall,"  she  added 
sharply  to  one  of  the  children,  who  hastened 
to  obey  the  command.  "  They'll  all  have  to 
stand  up  to  it  this  time.  I  ain't  a  goin'  to 
shift  that  baby  around  no  more  till  it's 
buried,  now  that  I  tin  bury  it.  Take  this 
side  of  the  table,  Pete.  I  don't  feel  like 
eatin.'  You  kin  have  my  place  'n  the  ole 
man  ain't  here.  Let  go  of  that  tin  cup,  you 
triflin'  young  one.  All  the  coffee  they  is, 
is  in  that.  Have  a  drink,  Mike?"  she  asked, 
passing  the  coveted  cup  to  the  second 
boarder.  Gertrude  was  half-way  down  the 
dark  hallway,  and  John  Martin  held  her  arm 
firmly  lest  she  step  into  some  unseen  trap 
or  broken  place  in  the  floor. 

When  they  reached  the  street  door  she 
turned  to  him  with  wide  eyes. 

"Great  God,"  she  moaned,   "and  people 


22  fl>ra£  U?ou,  Sir,  TJQbose  DaugbterT 

go  to  church  and  pray  and  thank  God — 
and  collect  rent  from  such  as  they!  Men 
offer  premiums  to  mothers  and  fathers  for 
large  families  of  children — to  be  brought 
up  like  that!  In  a  world  where  that  is 
possible !  Oh,  I  think  it  is  wicked,  wicked, 
wicked,  to  allow  it — any  of  it — all  of  it! 
How  can  you?" 

John  Martin  looked  hopeless  and  helpless. 

"I  don't,"  he  said,  in  pathetic  self-defense, 
feeling  somehow  that  the  blame  was  per- 
sonal. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  you ! "  she  exclaimed, 
almost  impatiently.  "I  mean  all  who  know 
it — who  have  known  and  understood  it  all 
along.  How  could  men  allow  it?  How 
dared  they?  And  to  think  of  encouraging 
such  people  to  marry — to  bring  into  a  life 
like  that  such  swarms  of  helpless  children. 
Oh,  the  sin  and  shame  and  outrage  of  it ! " 

John  Martin  was  dazed  that  she  should 
look  upon  it  as  she  did.  He  was  surprised 
that  she  spoke  so  openly.  He  did  not  fully 
comprehend  the  power  and  force  of  real 
conviction  and  feeling  overtaken  in  a  sin- 


fl>rag  Kern,  Sir,  "fflflbose  Dauflbtcr?  23 

cere  and  fearlessly  frank  nature  by  such 
a  knowledge  for  the  first  time. 

"I  should  not  have  brought  you  here,"  he 
said,  feebly,  as  they  entered  the  waiting- 
carriage  which  her  mother  had  insisted  she 
should  take  if  she  would  go  "  slumming,"  as 
she  had  expressed  it. 

She  turned  an  indignant  face  upon  him. 

"Why?"  she  demanded. 

He  tried  to  say  something  about  a  shock 
to  her  nerves,  and  such  sights  and  know- 
ledge being  not  for  worn  ,n. 

"I  had  begun  to  feel  that  he  respected  me 
— believed  in  me — wanted,  in  truth  and  not 
merely  in  name,  to  share  life  with  me, "  she 
thought,  "but  he  does  not:  it  is  all  a  sham. 
He  wants  someone  who  shall  not  share  life 
with  him — not  even  his  mental  life." 

"You  would  come  here  with  papa,  would 
you  not?"  she  asked,  presently.  "You 
would  talk  over,  look  at,  think  of  the  prob- 
lems of  life  with  him," — her  voice  began  to 
tremble. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  "but  that  is  differ- 
ent.    It—" 

"Yes,    it    is    different;    quite     different. 


24  iprag  H?out  Sir,  Wboee  Baugbter? 

You  love  papa,  and  it  would  be  a  pain  to 
you  to  keep  your  mental  books  locked  up 
from  him.  You  respect  papa,  and  you 
would  not  be  able  to  live  a  life  of  pretense 
with  him.     You — " 

K  Gertrude !  Oh,  darling !  I  love  you. 
I  love  you.  You  know  that, "  he  said  grasp- 
ing both  her  hands  and  covering  them 
with  kisses.  She  snatched  them  away,  and 
covered  her  face  with  them  to  hide  the  tears 
which  were  a  surprise  and  shock  to  herself. 

"I  should  not  have  taken  her  there,"  he 
thought.     "I'm  a  great  fool." 

He  did  not  at  all  comprehend  the  girl's 
point  of  view,  and  she  resented  nis.  He 
could  not  imagine  why,  and  her  twenty 
years  of  inexperience  in  handling  such  a 
view  of  life  as  had  suddenly  grown  up  with- 
in her,  made  her  unable  to  express  quite 
fully  why  she  did  resent  his  assumption  that 
she  should  not  be  allowed  to  use  her  heart 
or  brain  beyond  the  limits  set  for  their  exer- 
cise by  conventional  theory.  She  could  not 
express  in  words  why  she  felt  insulted  and 
outraged  in  her  self-respect  that  he  should 
assume  that  life  was  and  should  be  led  by 


IPras  l?ou,  Sir,  "Mbose  Baugbter?  25 

her,  upon  a  distinctly  different  and  narrower 
plane  than  his  own.  She  knew  that  she 
could  not  accept  his  explanation,  that  it  was 
his  intense  love  that  wished  to  shield  her 
from  knowledge  of  all  that  was  ugly — of  all 
the  deeper  and  sadder  meanings  of  human 
experience;  but  she  felt  unequal  to  making 
him  understand  by  any  words  at  her  com- 
mand how  far  from  her  idea  of  an  exalted 
love  such  an  assumption  was. 

That  he  should  sincerely  believe  that  as  a 
matter  of  course  much  that  was  and  should 
be  quite  common  in  his  own  life  should  be 
kept  from,  covered  up,  blurred  into  indis- 
tinction  to  her,  came  to  her  with  a  shock 
too  sudden  and  heavy  for  words.  She  had 
built  an  exalted  ideal  of  absolute  mental 
companionship  between  those  who  loved. 
She  had  always  thought  that  one  day  she 
should  pass  through  the  portals  of  some  vast 
building  by  the  side  of  a  husband  to  whom 
all  within  was  new  as  it  would  be  to  her. 
She  had  fancied  that  neither  spoke;  that 
both  read  the  tablets  of  architecture  —  and 
of  human  legend  on  every  face  —  so  nearly 
alike  that  by  a  glance  of  the  eye  she  could 


26  lprag  J^ou,  Sir,  TKflbose  Daugbter? 

say  to  him,  "  I  know  what  you  are  thinking 
of  all  this.  It  stirs  such  or  such  a  memory. 
It  strikes  the  chord  that  holds  these  thoughts 
or  those."  But  she  read  as  plainly  now  that 
this  man  who  thought  he  loved  her,  whom 
she  had  grown  to  feel  she  might  one  day 
love,  had  no  such  conception  of  a  union  of 
lives.  To  him  marriage  would  mean  a  phys- 
ical possession  of  a  toy  more  or  less  valuable, 
more  or  less  to  be  cherished  or  to  be  set  un- 
der a  glass  case,  whenever  his  real  life,  his 
real  thoughts,  his  deeper  self  were  stirred. 
These  were  to  be  kept  for  men  —  his  men- 
tally developed  equals.  She  understood  full 
well  that  if  she  could  have  said  this  to  him 
he  would  have  been  shocked,  would  have  re- 
sented such  a  contemptuous  interpretation  of 
what  he  truly  believed  to  be  a  wholly  respect- 
ful love,off  ered  upon  wholly  respectful  terms. 
But  to  her,  it  seemed  the  mere  tossing  down 
of  a  filbert  to  a  pretty  kitten,  that  it  might 
amuse  him  for  a  few  moments  with  its  grace- 
ful antics.  When  he  tired  of  the  kitten,  or 
bethought  him  of  the  serious  duties  of  life, 
he  could  turn  the  key  and  count  on  finding 
the   amusing   little  creature    to    play   with 


Ipras  i?ou,  Sir,  TIMbose  Daugbter?       •    27 

again  next  day  in  case  he  cared  to  relax 
himself  with  a  sight  of  its  gambols.  She 
resented  such  a  view  of  the  value  of  her 
life.  She  was  humiliated  and  indignant. 
The  perfectly  apparent  lack  of  comprehen- 
sion on  his  part  of  any  lapse  of  respect  in 
attitude  toward  her,  the  entire  unconscious- 
ness of  the  insult  to  her  whole  nature,  in  his 
assumption  of  a  divine  right  of  individual 
growth  and  development  to  which  she  had 
no  claim,  stung  her  beyond  all  power  of 
speech.  The  very  fact  that  he  had  no  com- 
prehension of  the  affront  himself,  added  to 
it  its  utterly  hopeless  feature.  The  love  of 
a  man  offered  on  such  terms  is  an  insult,  she 
said,  over  and  over  to  herself;  but  aloud  she 
said  nothing. 

She  had  heard,  vaguely,  through  her  tu- 
mult of  feeling,  his  terms  of  endearment, 
his  appeals  to  her  tenderness  and  —  alas! 
unfortunately  for  him  —  his  apologies  for 
having  taken  her  to  such  a  place.  She  be- 
came distinctly  aware  of  these  latter  first 
and  it  steadied  her.  They  had  reached 
Washington  Square. 

Yes,  that  revelation  in  Mulberry  Street 


... 


28  peas  lou,  Sir,  WFdosc  2>augbter? 

was  a  horrible  shock  to  me,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  him  for  the  first  time  since  they  had 
entered  the  carriage  ;  "  bnt,  do  you  know, 
I  think  there  are  more  shocking  things  than 
even  that  done  in  the  name  of  love  every 
day  —  things  as  heartless  and  offensively 
uncomprehending  of  what  is  fine  and  true  in 
life  as  that  wretched  woman's  conduct  with 
the  lifeless  form  of  her  baby." 

He  recognized  a  hard  ring  in  her  voice, 
but  her  eyes  looked  kind  and  gentle. 

"  How  do  you  mean? "  he  asked,  touch- 
ing her  hand  as  it  lay  on  her  empty  purse 
in  her  lap. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  could  ever  make  you 
understand  what  I  mean,  we  are  so  hope- 
lessly far  apart,"  she  said,  a  little  sadly. 
"  That  an  explanation  is  necessary —  that  is 
the  hopeless  part.  That  that  poor  woman 
did  not  comprehend  that  her  conduct  and 
callousness  were  shocking  —  that  was  the 
hopeless  part.  To  make  you  understand 
what  I  mean  would  be  like  making  her  un- 


*& 


derstand  all  the  hundreds  of  awful  thing's 


&■ 


that  her  conduct  meant  to  us.     If  it  is  not 


f>ra\?  l!?ouf  Sir,  TMbose  Daugbtcr?  29 

in  one's  nature  to  comprehend  without 
words,  then  words  are  useless." 

His  vehement  protests  stirred  her  sympa- 
thy again. 

"  You  say  that  love  brings  people  near  to- 
gether. Do  you  know  I  am  beginning 
to  think  that  nothing  could  be  a  greater 
calamity  than  that?  Drawn  together  by  a 
love  that  rests  on  a  physical  basis  for  those 
who  refuse  to  allow  it  root  in  a  common 
sympathy  and  a  community  of  thought  it 
must  fail  sooner  or  later.  A  humbled  ac- 
ceptance of  the  crumbs  of  her  husband's 
life,  or  a  resentful  endurance  of  it,  may  re- 
sult from  the  accursed  faithfulness  or  the 
pitiful  dependence  of  wives,  but  surely  — 
surely  no  greater  calamity  could  befall  her 
and  no  worse  fate  lie  in  wait  for  him." 

Her  lover  stared  at  her,  pained  and  puz- 
zled. When  they  reached  her  door  he 
grasped  her  hand. 

w  I  thought  you  loved  me  last  night,  and 
I  went  away  in  an  ecstasy  of  hope.  To- 
day—" 

"Perhaps  I  do  love  you,"  she  said;  "but 
I  do  not  respect  you,  because  you  do  not 


30  IPcag  ]j)ou,  Sir,  timbose  SDaugbter? 

respect  me."  He  made  a  quick  sound  of 
dissent,  but  she  checked  him.  "  You  do  not 
respect  womanhood;  you  only  patronize 
women  —  3^011  only  patronize  me.  I  could 
not  give  you  a  right  to  do  that  for  life. 
Good-bye.  Don't  come  in  this  time.  Wait. 
Let  us  both  think." 

"  Let  us  both  think,"  he  repeated,  as  he 
started  down  the  street.  "Think!  Think 
what?  I  had  no  idea  that  Gertrude  would 
be  so  utterly  unreasonable.  It  is  a  girl's 
whim.  She'll  get  over  it,  but  it  is  deucedly 
uncomfortable  while  it  lasts." 

"Mamma,  said  Gertrude,  when  she 
reached  her  mother's  pretty  room  on  the 
third  floor.  "  Mamma,  do  you  suppose  if  a 
girl  really  and  truly  loved  a  man  that  she 
would  stop  to  think  whether  he  had  a  high 
or  a  low  estimate  of  womanhood?" 

The  girl's  mother  looked  up  startled. 
She  was  quite  familiar  with  what  she  had 
always  termed  the  "  superhumanly  aged  re- 
marks "  of  her  daughter,  but  the  new  turn 
they  had  taken  surprised  her. 

"I  don't  believe  she  would,  Gertrude. 
Why?     Are  you  imagining  yourself  in  love 


fl>rav  l>ou,  Sir,  Ulibose  Baugbtcr?  31 

with  some  man  who  is  not  chivalrous  to- 
ward women?"  Mrs.  Foster  smiled  at  the 
mere  idea  of  her  daughter  caring  much  for 
any  man.  She  thought  she  had  observed 
her  too  closely  to  make  a  mistake  in  the 
matter. 

Gertrude  evaded  the  first  question. 

"I  once  heard  a  very  brilliant  man  say — 
what  I  did  not  then  understand —  that  chiv- 
alry was  always  the  prelude  to  imposition. 
I  believe  I  don't  care  very  especially  for 
chivalry.  Fair  play  is  better,  don't  you 
think  so? ,:  She  did  not  pause  for  a  reply, 
but  began  taking  off  her  long  gloves. 

"  Which  would  you  like  best  from  papa, 
flattery  or  square-toed,  honest  truth?" 

Her  mother  laughed. 

"  Gertrude,  you  are  perfectly  ridiculous. 
The  institution  of  marriage,  as  now  estab- 
lished, wouldn't  hang  together  ten  minutes 
if  your  square-toed,  honest  truth,  as  }^ou 
call  it,  were  to  be  tried  between  husbands 
and  wives.  Most  wives  are  frightened 
nearly  to  death  for  fear  they  will  become 
acquainted  with  the  truth  some  day.  They 
don't  want   it.     They  were  not — built  for 


32  Ipras  Jjjou,  Sir,  "Wflbosc  Daugbter? 

it."  Gertrude  began  to  move  about  the 
room  impatiently.  Her  mother  smiled  at 
her  and  went  on:  "Don't  you  look  at  it 
that  way?  No?  "Well,  you  are  young  yet. 
Wait  until  you've  been  married  three 
years  —  " 

The  girl  turned  upon  her  with  an  indig- 
nant face.  Then  suddenly  she  threw  her 
arms  about  her  mother's  neck. 

"  Poor  mamma,  poor  mamma,"  she  said. 
"  Didn't  you  find  out  for  three  years  after? 
How  did  you  bear  it?  I  should  have  com- 
mitted suicide.     I  —  " 

"  Oh,  no  j^ou  wouldn't!  "  said  her  mother, 
with  a  bitter  little  inflection.  "They  all 
talk  that  way.  Girls  all  feel  so,  if  they 
know  enough  to  feel  at  all  —  to  think  at  all. 
They  rage  and  wear  out  their  nerves  —  as 
you  are  doing  now,  heaven  knows  why  — 
and  the  beloved  husband  calls  a  doctor  and 
buys  sweets  and  travels  with  the  precious 
invalid,  and  never  once  suspects  that  he  is 
at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  trouble.  It 
never  dawns  upon  him  that  what  she  is  dy- 
ing for  is  a  real  and  loyal  companionship, 
such  as  she  had  fondly  dreamed  of,  and  not 


fl>ra£  lou,  Sir,  Wbose  ©augbtet?  33 

at  all  for  sea  air.  It  doesn't  enter  his  mind 
that  she  feels  humiliated  because  she  knows 
that  a  great  part  of  his  life  is  a  sealed  book 
to  her,  and  that  he  wishes  to  keep  it  so." 

She  paused,  and  her  daughter  stroked  her 
cheek.  This  was  indeed  a  revelation  to  the 
girl.  She  had  been  wholly  deceived  by  her 
mother's  gay  manner  all  these  years.  Shty 
was  taking  herself  sharply  to  task  now. 

"But  by  and  by  when  she  succeeds  i.» 
killing  all  her  self-respect ;  when  she  makes 
up  her  mind  that  the  case  is  hopeless,  ancl 
that  she  must  expect  absolutely  no  frank- 
ness in  life  beyond  the  limits  of  conven- 
tional usage  prescribed  for  purblind  babies; 
after  she  arrives  at  the  point  where  she  dis- 
covers that  her  happiness  is  a  pretty  fiction 
built  on  air  foundation  —  well,  daughter, 
after  that  she  —  she  strives  to  murder  all 
that  is  in  her  beyond  and  above  the  petty 
simpleton  she  passes  for  —  and  she  suc- 
ceeds fairly  well,  doesn't  she?  " 

There  was  a  cynical  smile  on  her  lips,  and 
she  made  an  elaborate  bow  to  her  daughter. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  beg  your  pardon ! "  ex- 
claimed   the    girl,    almost    frightened.     "I 


34  prag  lou,  Sir,  Wbose  2>augbter  ? 

■ 

truly  beg  your  pardon!      It — you  —  I  —  " 

Her  mother  looked  steadily  out  of  the 
window.  Then  she  said,  slowly,  w  How  did 
you  come  to  find  all  this  out  before  you 
were  married,  child?  Have  I  not  done  a 
mother's  duty  by  you  in  keeping  you  in 
ignorance,  so  far  as  I  could,  of  all  the 
struggles  and  facts  of  life  —  of—-" 

The  bitter  tone  was  in  her  voice  again. 
Gertrude  was  hurt  by  it,  it  was  so  full  of 
self-reproach  mingled  with  self-contempt. 
She  slipj^ed  her  arm  about  her  mother's 
waist. 

"Don't,  mamma,"  she  said.  "Don't  blame 
yourself  like  that.  I'm  sure  you  have 
always  done  the  best  possible — the — " 

Her  mother  laughed,  but  the  note  was  not 
pleasant. 

"  Yes,  I  always  did  the  lady-like  thing, — 
nothing.  I  floated  with  the  tide.  Take  my 
advice,  daughter, — float.  If  you  don't, 
you'll  only  tire  yourself  trying  to  swim 
against  a  tide  that  is  too  strong  for  you  and 
—  and  nothing  will  come  of  it.  Nothing  at 
all." 

The  girl  began  to  protest  with  the  self- 


lprag  lou,  Sir,  TlUlbose  Daughter?  35 

confidence  of  youth,  but  her  mother  went 
on.  She  had  taken  the  bit  in  her  teeth  to- 
day and  meant  to  run  the  whole  race. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  did  not  know  about 
the  Spillini  family?  About  the  thousands 
of  Spillini  families?  Do  you  suppose  I  did 
not  know  that  the  rent  of  ten  such  families 
— their  whole  earnings  for  a  year — would 
be  spent  on — on  a  pretty  inlaid  prayer-book 
like  this?"  She  tapped  the  jeweled  cross 
and  turned  it  over  on  her  lap.  The  girl's 
eyes  were  wide  and  almost  fear-filled  as  she 
studied  her  handsome  care-free  mother  in 
her  new  mood. 

"Did  you  really  suppose  I  did  not  knoAv 
that  this  gem  on  the  top  of  the  cross  is  dyed 
with  the  life-blood  of  some  jDoor  wretch,  and 
that  this  one  represents  the  price  of  the 
honor  of  a  starving  girl?"  She  shivered, 
and  the  girl  drew  back.  "Did  you  fancy 
me  as  ignorant  and  as — happy — as  I  have 
talked?  Don't  you  know  that  it  is  the  sole 
duty  of  a  well-bred  woman  to  be  ignorant 
— and  happy?  Otherwise  she  is  morbid!" 
She  pronounced  the  word  affectedly,  and 
then  laughed  a  bitter  little  laugh. 


36  iPras  L>ou,  Sir,  TKIlbose  Daugbter? 

"Don't,  mamma,"  said  the  girl,  again.  "I 
quite  understand  now,  quite — "  She  laid 
her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom  and  was 
silent.  Presently  she  felt  a  tear  drop  on 
her  hair.  She  put  her  hand  up  to  her 
mother's  cheek  and  stroked  it. 

"The  game  went  against  you,  didn't  it, 
mamma?"  she  said  softly.  "And  you  were 
not  to  blame."  She  felt  a  little  shiver  run 
over  her  mother's  frame  and  a  sob  crushed 
back  bravely  that  hurt  her  like  a  knife. 
Presently  two  hands  lifted  the  girl's  face. 

"You  don't  despise  me,  daughter?  In 
my  position  the  price  of  a  woman's  peace  is 
the  price  of  her  own  self-respect.  I  did  not 
lose  the  game.     I  gave  it  up ! " 

Gertrude  kissed  her  on  eyes  and  lips. 

"Poor  mamma,  poor  mamma,"  she  said 
softly,  "I  wonder  if  I  shall  do  the  same!" 

For  the  first  time  since  she  entered  the 
room,  the  daughter  appeared  to  appeal  for, 
rather  than  to  offer,  sympathy  and  strength. 
Her  mother  was  quick  to  respond. 

"  If  you  never  learn  to  love  anyone  very 
much,  daughter,  you  may  hope  to  keep  your 
self-respect.     If  you  do  you  will  sell  it  all  — 


lPras  Kou,  Sir,  TlUlbose  Daugbtcr?  37 

for  his.     And — and — " 

"  Lose  both  at  last?  "  asked  the  girl,  hoarse- 
ly. Ivatherine  Foster  closed  her  eyes  for  a 
moment  to  shut  out  her  daughter's  face. 

"  Will  you  ever  have  had  his?  "  she  asked, 
with  her  eyes  still  closed.  fDo  men  ever 
truly  respect  their  dupes  or  their  inferiors? 
Do  you  truly  respect  anyone  to  whom  you 
are  willing  to  deny  truth,  honor,  dignity? 
Is  it  respect,  or  only  a  tender,  pitying  love 
we  offer  an  intellectual  cripple  —  one  whose 
mental  life  Ave  know  to  be,  and  desire  to 
keep,  distinctly  below  our  own?  Do  — " 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  they  rested  on  an 
onyx  clock.  She  laughed.  t?  Come,  daugh- 
ter," she  said,  "it  is  time  to  dress  for  the 
Historical  Club's  annual  dinner.  You  know 
I  am  one  of  the  guests  of  honor  to-day. 
They  honor  me  so  truly  that  I  am  not  per- 
mitted to  join  the  club  or  be  ranked  as  a 
useful  member  at  all.  My  work  they  accept 
—  natter  me  by  praising  in  a  lofty  way;  but 
I  can  have  no  status  with  them  as  an  histo- 
rian —  I  am  a  woman !  " 

Gertrude  sprang  to  her  feet.     Her  eyes 
flashed  fire. 


38  H>rag  2L>ou,  Sir,  mboec  2>aii0bter? 

"  Don1 1  go !     I  wouldn't  allow  them  to  —  " 

The  door  opened  softly.  Mr.  Foster's 
face  appeared. 

"Why,  dearie,  aren't  you  ready  for  the 
Historical  Club?  I  wouldn't  have  you  late 
for  anything.  You  know  I,  as  the  vice- 
president,  am  to  respond  to  the  toast  on, 
rWoman:  the  highest  creation,  and  God's 
dearest  gift  to  mankind.'  It  wouldn't  look 
well  if  you  were  not  there. " 

"  ]STo,  dear,"  she  said,  without  glancing  at 
Gertrude.  "It  would  not  look  well.  I'll 
be  ready  in  a  minute.  Will  you  help  me, 
Gertrude?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  and  her  deft  fingers 
flew  at  the  task.  When  the  door  closed 
behind  her  mother  and  the  carriage  rolled 
away,  she  threw  herself  face  down  on  the 
bed  and  ground  her  teeth.  "Shall  I  float, 
or  try  to  swim  up  stream?"  she  said,  to  her- 
self. "  Will  either  one  pay  for  what  it  will 
cost?     Shall  —  " 

"Miss  Gertrude,  dinner  is  served,"  said 
the  maid;  and  she  went  to  the  table  alone. 

"  To  think  that  a  visit  to  the  Spillini  fam- 
ily should  have  led  to  all  this,"  she  thought, 


IPrag  H?out  Sir,  Wbose  ©augbter?  39 

and  felt  that  life,  as  it  had  been,  was  over 
for  her. 

Aloud  she  said :  — 

"James,  the  berries,  please,  and  then  you 
may  go." 

And  James  told  Susan  that  in  his  opinion 
the  man  that  got  Miss  Gertrude  was  going 
to  get  the  sweetest,  simplest,  yieldingest 
girl  he  ever  saw  except  one,  and  Susan 
vowed  she  could  not  guess  who  that  one 
was. 

But  apparently  James  did  not  wholly  be- 
lieve her,  for  he  essayed  to  sportively  poke 
her  under  the  chin  with  an  index  finger  that 
very  evidently  had  seen  better  days  prior  to 
having  come  into  violent  contact  with  a 
base  ball,  which,  having  a  mind  and  a  curve 
of  its  own,  had  incidentally  imparted  an  ec- 
centric crook  to  the  unfortunate  member. 

"Don't  you  dast  t'  touch  me  with  that  old 
pot  hook,  er  I'll  scream,"  exclaimed  Susan, 
dodging  the  caress.  "  I  don't  see  no  sense 
in  a  feller  gettin'  hisself  all  broke  up  that  a 
way,"  and  Susan,  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  butler's  table,  glanced  admiringly  at  her 
own  shapely  hand,  albeit   the  wrist   might 


40  floras  !?ou,  Sir,  TMbose  Daugbter? 

have  impressed  fastidious  taste  as  of  too 
robust  proportions,  and  the  fingers  have 
suggested  less  of  flexibility  than  is  desira- 
ble. 

But  to  James  the  hand  was  perfect,  and 
Susan,  feeling  her  power,  did  not  scruple  to 
use  it  with  brutal  directness.  She  had  that 
shivering  dislike  for  deformity  which  is  pos- 
sessed by  the  physically  perfect,  and  she 
took  it  as  a  private  grievance  that  James 
should  have  taken  the  liberty  to  break  one 
of  his  fingers  without  her  knowledge  and 
consent.  Until  he  had  met  her,  James  had 
carried  his  distorted  member  as  a  badge  of 
honor.  No  warrior  had  worn  more  proudly 
his  battle  scars.  For,  to  James,  to  be  a 
catcher  in  a  base  ball  club  was  honor 
enough  for  one  man,  and  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  a  loftier  ambition.  He  had 
grown  to  keep  that  mutilated  finger  ever  to 
the  fore  as  a  retired  general  might  carry  an 
empty  sleeve.  It  gave  distinction  and  told 
of  brave  and  lofty  achievement,  so  James 
thought. 

Susan  had  modified  his  pride  in  the  dis- 
located digit,  but  he  had  not  yet  learned  to 


prag  !?ou,  Sir,  IHHbosc  Baugbter?  41 

keep  it  always  in  the  background.  It  had 
several  times  before  interfered  with  his  love- 
making,  and  James  was  humble. 

"  Oh,  now,  Susie,  don't  you  be  so  hard  on 
that  there  old  base-ball  finger!  I  didn't 
know  it  was  a-going  to  touch  your  lovely 
dimple,"  and  he  held  the  offending  member 
behind  his  back,  as  he  slowly  circled  around 
the  table  towards  the  haughty  Susan.  "  By 
gum!  I  b'lieve  I  left  a  mark  on  your  chin. 
Lemme  see."  She  thought  she  understood 
the  ruse,  but  when  he  kissed  her  she  pre- 
tended deep  indignation  and  flounced  out  of 
the  room,  but  the  look  on  her  face  caused 
James  to  drop  his  left. eyelid  over  a  twinkling 
orb  and  shake  his  sides  with  satisfaction  as  he 
removed  the  dishes  after  Miss  Gertrude  had 
withdrawn  from  the  dining  room. 


42  IPrag  !?ou,  Sir,  Wbose  DaugbterT 


IY. 

The  visit  to  the  Spillini  family  had,  in- 
deed, led  to  strange  complications  and  far- 
reaching  results.  No  one  who  had  known 
young  Selden  Avery  and  his  social  life 
would  ever  have  suspected  him,  or  any  mem- 
ber of  his  set,  of  a  desire  to  take  part  in 
what,  by  their  club  friends  or  favorite  re- 
views, was  usually  alluded  to  as  the  "dirty 
pool  of  politics."  For  the  past  decade 
political  advancement,  at  least  in  New  York? 
had  grown  to  be  looked  upon  by  many  as  a 
mere  matter  of  purchase  and  sale,  and  as 
quite  beneath  the  dignity  of  the  more 
refined  and  cultured  men.  It  had  been 
heralded  as  a  vast  joke,  therefore,  when 
young  Selden  Avery,  the  representative  of 
one  of  the  most  cultured  families  and  the 
honored  son  of  an.  honored  ancestry,  had 
suddenly  announced  himself  as  a  candidate 
for  the  Assembly.     His  club  friends  guyed 


prag  Wou,  Sir,  TlElbose  2>auabter7  43 

him  unmercifully.  "We  never  did  believe 
that  you  were  half  as  good  as  you  pretended 
to  be,  Avery,"  said  one  of  them,  the  first 
time  he  appeared  at  the  club  after  his  nomi- 
nation, "but  I  don't  believe  a  man  of  us 
ever  suspected  you  of  the  depths  of  de- 
pravity that  this  implies.  What  ever  did 
put  such  a  ridiculous  idea  into  such  a  level 
and  self-respecting  head?     Out  with  it!" 

Banter  of  this  nature  met  him  on  every 
hand.  He  realized  more  fully  than  ever 
how  changed  the  point  of  vieAV  had  grown 
to  be  from  the  historical  days  of  Washing- 
ton or  even  of  Lincoln.  He  recalled  the 
time  when  in  his  own  boyhood  his  honored 
father  had  served  in  the  Legislature  of  his 
native  state,  and  had  not  felt  it  other  than 
a  crowning  distinction.  Nor  had  it  been  so 
looked  upon  then  by  his  associates. 

Nevertheless  the  constant  jokes  and  gibes, 
which  held  something  of  a  real  sting,  had 
become  so  frequent  that  young  Avery  felt 
like  resenting  his  friends'  humorous  thrusts. 

"I  can't  see  that  I  need  be  ashamed  to 
follow  in  the  footsteps  of  my  father,"  he 
said,  a  little  hotly.     "  Some  of  the  noblest  of 


44  lpra£  13cm,  Sir,  lldboee  ©augbter? 

men — those  upon  whom  the  history  of  this 
country  depends  for  lustre — held  seats  in 
the  Assembly,  and  helped  shape  the  laws  of 
their  states.  I  don't  see  why  I  need  apolo- 
gize for  a  desire  to  do  the  same." 

"It  used  to  be  an  association  of  gentle- 
men up  at  the  state  capital,  my  boy.  To- 
day it  is — Lord!  you  know  what  it  is,  I 
guess.  But  if  you  don't,  just  peruse  this 
sacred  volume,"  laughed  his  friend,  sarcasti- 
cally, producing  a  small  pamphlet. 

"Looks  to  me  as  if  you'd  be  rather  out 
of  your  element  with  your  colleagues. 
'M-m-m!  Yes,  here  is  the  list.  Hunted 
this  up  after  I  heard  you  were  going  to 
stand  for  your  district." 

The  English  form  of  expression  was  no 
affectation,  for  the  speaker  was  far  more 
familiar  with  political  nomenclature  abroad 
than  at  home.  He  Avould  have  felt  it  an 
honor  to  a  man  to  be  called  upon  to  "stand" 
for  his  constituency  in  London,  but  to  "run" 
for  it  in  New  York  was  far  less  dignified. 
Standing  gave  an  idea  of  repose;  running 
was  vulgar.  Then,  too,  the  State  Legisla- 
ture  did   not   bear  the  proportionate  rela- 


IPrag  Kou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter?  45 

tionship  to  Congress  that  the  Commons  did 
to  Parliament,  and  it  was  always  in  con- 
nection with  that  latter  body  that  he  had 
associated  the  term. 

"Let  me  see.  One,  two,  three,  four, 
'teen  'steen — yes,  I  thought  I  was  right! 
Just  exactly  nineteen  of  your  nearest  col- 
leagues are  saloon  keepers.  One  used  to 
keep  that  disorderly  house  on  Prince  Street, 
four  are  butchers,  one  was  returned  because 
he  had  won  fame  as  a  base-ballist  and — but 
why  go  further?  Here,  Martin,  I'm  trying 
to  convince  Avery  that  it  will  be  a  trifle 
trying  on  his  nerves  to  hobnob  with  the  new 
set  he's  making  for.  Don't  you  think  it 
is  rather  an  anti-climax  from  the  Union  to 
the  lower  house  at  Albany?  Ye  gods!" 
and  he  laughed,  half  in  scorn  and  half  in 
real  amusement. 

John  Martin  had  extended  his  hand  for 
the  small  pamphlet  of  statistics.  He  ran  his 
eye  over  the  list,  and  then  turned  an  amused 
face  upon  Avery. 

"Think  you'll  like  i',?"  he  asked,  dryly. 
Or  are  you  taking  it  as  my  French  friend 
here  says  his  countrymen  take  heaven?" 


46  IPras  Kou,  Sir,  TKHbose  Daughter? 

:tHow's  that?"  queried  Avery,  smiling. 
"In  broken  doses  —  or  not  at  all?" 

The  French  gentleman  stood  with  that 
poise  which  belongs  to  the  successful  man. 
He  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  and  spread 
his  hands  to  either  side. 

"All  Frenchmen  desire  to  go  to  ze  heaven, 
zhentlemen.  Why?  Ah,  zere  air  two  at- 
traczions  which  to  effrey  French  zhentle- 
man  air  irresisteble.  Ze  angels  —  zey  air 
women  —  and  I  suppose  zat  ze  God  weal 
also  be  an  attraczion.     Ees  eet  not  so?" 

Every  one  in  the  group  laughed  and  he 
went  gravely  on. 

"  I  zink  zat  eet  ees  true — ees  eet  not? —  zat 
loafly  woman  will  always  be  vara  much  ob- 
searved  even  in  ze  heaven  eef  we  zhentlemen 
are  zere.  Eef?  "  He  cast  up  the  corners 
of  his  eyes,  and  made  another  elaborate 
movement  of  his  hands. 

The  others  all  laughed  again. 

"Yes,  zhentlemen,  ze  true  Frenchman 
cares  for  two  zings:  a  new  sensation  — 
somesing  zey  haf  not  before  experienced, 
—  and  zat  ees  God ;  and  for  zat  which  zey 


©ras  j?ou,  Sir,  TDClbose  Dauflbtet?  47 

haf  obsearved,  but  of  which  zey  can  naavear 
obsearve  enough  —  loafly  woman !  " 

The  explosion  of  laughter  that  greeted 
this  sally  brought  about  them  a  number  of 
other  gentlemen,  and  the  talk  drifted  into 
different  channels  Presently  young  Avery 
glanced  at  his  watch  and  started,  with  rather 
a  sore  heart,  toward  the  door.  He  remem- 
bered that  he  had  promised  the  managers 
of  his  campaign  that  he  would  be  seen  that 
evening  at  a  certain  open-air  garden  fre- 
quented by  the  humbler  portion  of  his  con- 
stituency. He  concluded  to  go  alone  the 
first  time  that  he  might  the  better  observe 
without  attracting  too  much  attention.  This 
plan  was  thought  wise  to  enable  him  to  meet 
the  exigencies  of  the  coming  campaign  when 
he  should  be  called  upon  to  speak  to  this  ele- 
ment of  his  supporters. 

Once  outside  the  club  house,  he  took  a 
card  from  his  pocket  and  glanced  at  the 
directions  he  had  jotted  upon  it. 

"I'll  walk  across  to  the  elevated,"  he 
thought,  "and  make  my  connection  for 
Grady's  place  that  way.  It  will  save  time 
and  look  more  democratic. 


48  ©rag  J^ou,  Sit,  TMbose  Baugbtert 


Y. 

The  infinite  pathos  of  life  was  neve* 
better  illustrated,  perhaps,  than  in  the 
merry-making  that  night  at  Grady's  Pavil- 
ion. The  easy  camaradarie  between  con- 
scious and  unconscious  vice ;  the  so-evident 
struggle  the  young  girls  had  made  to  be 
beautiful  and  stylish,  and  the  ghastly  result 
of  their  cheap  and  incongruous  finery; 
their  ignorant  acceptance  of  leers  that 
meant  to  them  honest  admiration  or  affec- 
tion, and  to  others  meant  far  different 
things;  their  jolly,  thoughtless,  eager  effort 
to  get  something  joyful  out  of  their  narrow 
lives;  the  brilliant  tints  in  which  they  saw 
the  future,  and  the  ghastly  light  in  which 
it  stood  revealed  to  older  and  more  experi- 
enced eyes,  would  have  combined  to  depress 
a  heart  less  tender  and  a  vision  less  clear 
than  could  have  been  attributed  to  Selden 
Avery.      ~Not  that  Grady's  Pavilion  was  a 


praE  l>out  Sir,  TKllbose  2>augbter?  49 

bad  place.  Many  of  the  girls  present  would 
not  have  been  there  had  it  been  known 
as  anything  short  of  quite  respectable;  but 
it  was  a  free  and  easy  place,  where  vice 
meets  ignorance  without  having  first  made 
an  appointment,  where  opportunity  shakes 
the  ungloved  hand  of  youth  and  leaves  a 
stain  upon  the  tender  palm  too  deep  and 
dark  for  future  tears  to  wash  away. 

"I  wonder  if  I  am  growing  morbid," 
mused  Avery,  as  he  sighed  for  the  third 
time  while  looking  at  the  face  of  a  girl 
not  over  eighteen  years  old,  but  already 
marked  by  lines  that  told  of  a  vaguely 
dawning  comprehension  of  what  the  future 
held  for  her.  Her  round-eyed  companion, 
a  girl  with  a  childish  mind  and  face,  sat 
beside  her,  but  all  the  world  Avas  bright 
to  her.  Life  held  a  prince,  a  fortune  and 
a  career  which  would  be  hers  one  day.  She 
had  only  to  wait,  look  pretty,  and  be  ready 
when  the  apple  of  fortune  fell.  Her  part 
was  to  hold  out  a  pretty  apron  to  break 
its  descent. 

"Oh,  the  infinite  pathos  of  youth! "  mut- 
tered Avery,  feeling  himself  very  old  with 


50  l>ra£  lou,  Sir,  TUHbose  Daughter? 

his  thirty  years  of  wider  experience  as  his 
eyes  turned  from  one  girl  to  the  other.  w  It 
is  hard  to  tell  which  is  the  sadder  sight;  the 
disillusioned  one  or  the  one  who  will  be  even 
more  roughly  awakened  to-morrow." 

His  heart  ached  whenever  he  studied  the 
face  of  a  young  girl.  "  There  is  nothing  so 
sad  in  all  the  wretched  world,"  he  sometimes 
said,  "  as  the  birth  of  a  girl  in  this  grade  of 
life.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  nations  we  look 
upon  as  barbarous  because  they  strangle  the 
little  things  before  they  are  able  to  think  —  I 
am  not  at  all  sure  that  they  are  not  more 
civilized  than  we  after  all.  We  only  maim 
them  with  ignorance '  and  utter  dependence, 
and  then  turn  them  out  into  a  life  where 
either  of  these  alone  is  an  incalculable  curse, 
and  the  combination  is  as  fatal  as  fire  in  a 
field  of  ripened  grain." 

The  younger  girl  was  looking  at  him. 
Her  wide  expectant  eyes  rested  on  his  face 
with  a  frankness  and  interest  that  touched 
his  mood  anew. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  he  said,  half  aloud; 
"  if  I  were  to  see  her  bound  hand  and  foot 
and  cast  into  a  den  of  wolves,  I  might  hope 


lPrag  !0ou,  Sir,  Whose  Baugbter?  51 

to  rescue  her;  but  from  this,  for  such  as  she 
there  is  absolutely  no  escape.  How  dare 
people  bring  into  the  world  those  who  must 
suffer?" 

w  Huh  ?  "  said  a  voice  beside  him.  He  had 
spoken  in  a  semi-audible  tone,  and  his  neigh- 
bor had  responded  after  his  habitual  fashion, 
to  what  he  looked  upon  as  an  overture  to 
conversation. 

"I  did  not  intend  to  speak  aloud,"  said 
Avery,  turning  to  glance  at  the  man  beside 
him;  "but  I  was  just  wondering  how  people 
dared  to  have  children  —  girls  particularly." 

The  man  beside  him  turned  his  full  face 
upon  him  and  examined  him  critically  from 
head  to  foot.  Then  he  laughed.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  heard  it  hinted 
that  it  was  not  a  wholly  commendable  thing 
to  bring  as  many  children  into  the  world  as 
nature  would  permit.  His  first  thought  had 
been  that  Avery  was  insane,  but  after  look- 
ing at  him  he  decided  that  he  was  only 
a  grim  joker. 

"  I  reckon  they  don't  spend  no  great  deal 
of  time  prayin'  over  the  subject,"  he  said, 
laughing'  again.     Then  he  crossed  his  legs 


52  fftrag  l!}ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter? 

and  added,  "an  I  don't  suppose  they  get 
any  telegrams  tellin'  them  they're  goin' 
to  he  girls,  neither.  If  they  did,  a  good 
many  men  would  lick  the  boy  that  brought 
the  despatch,  for  God  knows  most  of  us 
would  a  darn  sight  ruther  have  boys."       • 

The  laugh  had  died  out  of  his  voice,  and 
there  was  a  ring  of  disappointment  and 
aggrieved  trouble  in  it.  Selden  Avery 
shifted  his  position. 

"I  was  not  looking  at  it  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  parents  of  unwelcome  girls,"  he 
said,  presently,  "  but  from  the  outlook  of  the 
girls  of  unwelcome  parents.  The  reckon- 
ing from  that  side  looks  to  me  a  good  deal 
longer  than  the  other."  His  voice  was 
pleasant,  but  his  eyes  looked  perplexed  and 
determined.  His  neighbor  began  to  re- 
adjust his  opinion  of  Avery's  sanity,  and 
moved  his  chair  a  little  farther  away  before 
he  spoke. 

"Got  any  childern  of  your  own?"  he 
inquired,  succintly.  Avery  shook  his  head. 
The  man  drew  down  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  in  a  contemptuous  grimace.  "I 
thought  not.     If   you   had,  you'd  take  it  a 


U5tag  lou,  Sir,  TKflbose  2>auflbtcr7  53 

darn  sight  easiev.  Chiklern  are  an  ungrat- 
ful  lot.  They're  never  satisfied — or  next  to 
never.  They  think  you're  made  for  their 
comfort  instead  of  their  bein'  for  yours. 
I've  got  nine,  and  I  know  what  I'm  talkin' 
about.  If  you've  got  any  sympathy  to 
throw  away  don't  waste  it  on  ehildern. 
Parents,  in  these  days  of  degenerate  young- 
sters, are  passin'  around  the  hat  for  sympa- 
thy. In  my  day  it  was  just  the  other  way. 
If  one  of  the  young  ones  went  wrong, 
people  pitied  the  father  and  blamed  the 
child.  !Now-a-da}Ts  they  blame  the  father 
and  weep  over  the  young  one  that  makes 
the  mischief.     It  makes  me  mad." 

He  shut  his  teeth  with  a  suddenness  that 
suggested  a  snap,  and  flashed  a  defiant  look 
about  the  room. 

Avery  glanced  at  his  heavy,  stubborn  face, 
and  decided  not  to  reply.  He  was  in  no 
mood  for  controversy.  And  what  good 
could  it  do,  he  said  to  himself,  to  argue  with 
a  mere  lump  of  selfish  egotism?  > 

R  That  is  an  unusually  pretty  girl  over  by 
the  piano,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  mild  indiffer- 


54  15rag  U?ou,  Sir,  "Mbosc  Baugbter? 

ence  which  he  hoped  would  serve  as  a  period 
to  the  conversation. 

"  She 's  Tom  Berton's  girl,"  was  the  quick 
reply.  "  Berton  's  up  to  Albany  most  o'  the 
time,  with  me.  I  represent  our  district. 
She's  a  nice  little  thing.  She'll  do  anything 
you  ask  her  to.  I  never  see  her  equal  for 
that.  It's  easier  for  her  to  do  your  way  than 
it  is  to  do  her  own.  She  likes  to ;  so  every- 
body likes  her.  I  wish  I  had  one  like  her; 
but  my  girls  are  as  stubborn  as  mules. 
They  won't  drive,  and  they  won't  lead,  and 
they'd  rather  kick  than  eat.  I  don't  know 
where  they  got  it.  Their  mother  wasn't  half 
so  bad  that  way,  and  the  Lord  knows  it  ain't 
in  my  family.  The  girl  she's  with  is  one  o' 
mine.  She  looks  like  she  could  eat  tenpenny 
nails.  She  might  be  just  as  pretty  an'  just 
as  much  liked  as  Ettie  Berton,  but  she  ain't. 
She's  always  growlin'  about  somethin'.  I'll 
bet  a  dollar  she'll  growl  about  this  when  we 
get  home.  Ettie  will  think  it  was  splendid. 
She'd  have  a  good  time  at  a  funeral;  but 
that  girl  of  mine  '11  get  me  to  spend  a  dollar 
to  come  here  and  then  she'll  go  home  dissat- 
isfied.    It  won't  be  up  to  what  she  expected. 


lprag  H)ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Baugbter?  55 

Things  never  are.  She's  always  lookin'  to 
find  things  some  other  way.  iNow,  what 
would  you  do  with  a  girl  like  that?'1  he 
asked  suddenly.  Then  without  waiting  for 
a  reply,  he  added,  "  I  give  her  a  good  tongue 
lashin',  an'  as  she  always  knows  it's  coniin', 
she's  got  so  she  don't  kick  quite  so  much  as 
she  used  to,  but  she  just  sets  an'  looks  sul- 
len like  that.  It  makes  me  so  mad  I 
could  — " 

He  did  not  finish  his  remark,  but  got  up 
and  strolled  away  without  the  formality  of 
an  adieu. 

Avery  watched  his  possible  future  col- 
league until  he  was  lost  in  the  crowd,  and 
then  he  walked  deliberately  over  to  where 
the  two  girls  stood. 

"I  have  been  talking  with  your  father," 
he  said,  smiling  and  bowing  to  the  older 
girl,  "  and  although  he  did  not  say  that  I 
might  come  and  talk  to  you,  he  told  me  who 
you  were,  and  I  think  he  would  not  object." 

"Oh,  no;  he  wouldn't  object,"  said  the 
younger  girl,  eagerly.  'Would  he  Fan? 
Everybody  talks  here.  He  told  me  so  before 
we  came.     It's  the   first   time   we've  been; 


56  IPras  l£ou,  Sir,  limbose  Daughter? 

but  he's  been  before.     I  think  it's  splendid, 
don't  you?" 

The  older  girl  had  not  spoken.  She  was 
looking  at  Selden  Avery  with  half  sup- 
pressed interest  and  embryonic  suspicion. 
She  still  knew  too  little  of  life  to  have 
formed  even  a  clearly  defined  doubt  as  to 
him  or  his  intentions  in  speaking  to  them. 
She  was  less  happy  than  she  had  expected 
to  be  when  she  dressed  to  come,  with  her 
ever-dawning  hope  for  a  real  pleasure.  She 
thought  there  must  be  something  wrong 
with  her  because  things  never  seemed  to 
come  up  to  her  expectations.  She  supposed 
this  must  be  "society,"  and  that  when  she 
got  used  to  it,  she  would  enjoy  it  more.  But 
somehow  she  had  wanted  to  resent  it  the  first 
time  a  man  spoke  to  her,  and  then,  afterward, 
she  was  glad  she  did  not,  for  he  had  danced 
with  Ettie  twice,  and  Ettie  had  said  it  was 
a  lovely  dance.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  accept  the  next  offer  she  had,  but  when  it 
came,  the  eyes  of  the  man  were  so  beady- 
black,  and  the  odor  of  bay  rum  radiated 
so  insistently  from  him  that  she  declined. 
She    hated    bay    rum    because    the    worst 


IPrag  |)ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter?  57 

scolding1  her  father  ever  gave  her  was 
when  she  had  emptied  his  cherished  bottle 
upon  her  own  head.  The  odor  always 
brought  back  the  heart-ache  and  resentment 
of  that  day,  and  so  she  did  not  think  she 
cared  to  dance  just  then. 

Selden  Avery  looked  at  Ettie.  He  did 
not  want  to  tell  her  what  he  did  think  and 
he  had  not  the  heart  to  dampen  her  ardor, 
so  he  simply  smiled,  and  said:  — 

"  It  is  my  first  visit  here,  too ;  and  I  don't 
know  a  soul.  I  noticed  you  two  young 
ladies  a  while  ago,  and  spoke  of  you  to  the 
gentleman  next  to  me  and  it  chanced 
to  be  your  father"  —  he  turned  to  the  older 
girl  again —  "so  that  was  what  gave  me 
courage  to  come  over  here.  If  I  had 
thought  of  it  before  he  left  me,  I'd  have 
asked  him  to  introduce  me,  but  I'm  rather 
slow  to  think.     My  name  is  Selden  Avery." 

"Did  father  tell  you  mine?"  she  asked, 
looking  at  him  steadily,  with  eyes  that  held 
floating  ends  of  thoughts  that  were  never 
formed  in  full. 

"No,  he  didn't,"  replied  Avery,  laughing 
a  little.     "He  told  me  yours,  though,"  turn- 


58  prag  tyou,  Sir,  Wbose  DaugbtcvT 

ing  to  the  merry  child  at  his  side.  "Ettie 
Berton,  Tom  Berton's  daughter." 

Ettie  laughed,  and  clapped  her  hands 
together  twice. 

"Got  it  right  the  first  time!  But  what 
did  he  give  me  away  for  and  not  her?  She 
is  Francis  King.  That  is,  her  father's 
name's  King,  but  she  is  so  awfully  particu- 
lar about  things  and  so  hard  to  suit  she 
ought  to  be  named  Queen,  I  tell  her,  so 
I  call  her  Queen  Fan  mostly."  There  was 
a  little  laugh  all  around,  and  Avery  said :  — 

"Very  good,  very  good,  indeed;"  but 
Francis  looked  uncomfortable  and  so  he 
changed  the  subject.  Presently  she  looked 
at  him  and  asked :  — 

"Do  you  think  things  are  ever  like  they 
are  in  books?  Do  you  think  this  is?  She 
waved  her  hand  toward  the  music  and  the 
lights.  "In  the  books  I  have  read — and 
the  story  papers — it  all  seems  nicer  than 
this  and — and  different.  It  is  because  I 
say  that,  that  they  all  make  fun  of  me 
and  call  me  Queen  Fan,  and  father  says — " 
she  paused,  and  a  cold  light  gathered  in  her 
eyes.     "He  don't  like  it,  so  I  don't  say  it 


IPrag  !>ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daugbtcr?  59 

much,  now.  He  says  it's  all  put  on;  but 
it  ain't.  Everything  does  seem  to  turn  out 
so  different  from  what  you  expected — from 
the  way  you  read  about.  I've  not  felt  like  I 
thought  maybe  I  should  to-night  because — 
because — "     She  stopped  again. 

"Because  why?"  asked  Avery,  laughing 
a  little.  "Because  I'm  not  a  bit  like  the 
usual  story-book  prince  you  ought  to  have 
met  and — ?" 

She  smiled,  and  Ettie  made  a  droll  little 
grimace. 

"No,  it  wasn't  that  at  all.  I've  been 
thinking  most  all  evening  that  it  wasn't 
worth — that  —  " 

"Oh,  she's  worried,"  put  in  Ettie,  "be- 
cause she  got  her  father  to  spend  a  dollar  to 
bring  her.  She's  afraid  he'll  throw  it  up  to 
her  afterward,  and  she  thinks  it  won't  pay 
for  that,  so  it  spoils  the  whole  thing  before 
he  does  it  —  just  being  afraid  he  will.  But  I 
tell  her  he  won't,  this  time.  I  —  "  Francis' 
eyes  had  filled  with  tears  of  mortification, 
and  Avery  pretended  not  to  have  heard.  He 
affected  a  deep  interest  in  the  music. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is  they  are  playing 


60  floras  l?ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter? 

now?  "  he  asked,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  musicians.  "I  thought  at  first  that  it 
was  going  to  be  —  No,  it  is  —  'Pon  my  word 
I  can't  recall  it,  and  I  ought  to  know  what  it 
is,  too.  The  first  time  I  ever  heard  it,  I 
remember  —  " 

He  turned  toward  where  Francis  had 
stood,  but  she  was  gone.  "  "Why,  what  has 
become  of  Miss  King?"  he  asked  of  the 
other  girl.  Ettie  looked  all  about,  laughed 
and  wondered  and  chattered  as  gaily  as  a 
bird. 

"I  expect  she's  gone  home.  She's  the 
queerest  you  ever  saw.  I  guess  she  didn't 
want  me  to  say  that  about  her  pa.  But  it'll 
make  him  madder  than  anything  if  she  has 
gone  that  way.  He  won't  like  it  at  all  —  an' 
I  can't  blame  him.  "What's  the  use  to  be  so 
different  from  other  folks?"  she  inquired, 
sagely,  and  then  she  added,  laughing:  "I 
don't  know  as  she  is  so  different,  either.  We 
all  hate  things,  but  we  pretend  we  don't. 
Don't  you  think  it's  better  to  pretend  to  like 
things,  whether  you  do  or  not?" 

"No,"  replied  Avery,  beginning  to  look 
with   surprise   upon  this   small  philosopher 


Iprag  lou,  Sir,  IMbose  ©augbter?  61 

who  had  no  conception  of  the  worldly  wis- 
dom of  her  own  philosophy. 

"  I  do,"  she  said,  laughing  again.  M  It 
goes  down  better.  Everybody  likes  you 
better.  I've  found  that  out  already,  and  so 
I  pretend  to  like  everything.  Of  course  I  do 
like  some  of  'em,  and  some  I  don't,  but  it's 
just  as  easy  to  say  you  like  'em  all."  She 
laughed  again,  and  kept  time  with  her  toe 
on  the  floor. 

"  Just  what  don't  you  like  ?  "  asked  Avery, 
smiling.  "Won't  you  tell  me,  truly?  I  won't 
tell  anyone,  and  I'd  like  to  be  sure  of  one 
thing  you  object  to  —  on  principle." 

"Well,  tob —  Do  you  smoke?"  she 
asked. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  pursed  up  Ins  lips 
negatively. 

"  I  thought  not,"  she  said,  gaily.  l  You 
look  like  you  didn't.  Well,  I  hate — hate 
— hate — hate  smoke.  When  I  go  on  a 
ferry-boat,  and  the  air  is  so  nice  and  cool 
and  different  from  at  home,  and  seems  so 
clean,  I  just  love  it,  and  then — " 

"Some  one  sits  near  you  and  smokes," 
put  in  Avery,  consolingly. 


62  prag  i>ou,  Sic,  mbose  Daughter? 

?Yes,  they  do;  and  I  just  most  pray  that 
he'll  fall  over  and  get  drownded — but  he 
never  does ;  and  if  he  asks  me  if  I  object  to 
smoke,  I  say,  "  oh !  not  at  all ! "  and  then  he 
thinks  I'm  such  a  nice,  sensible  girl.  Pan 
tells  'em  right  out  that  she  don't  like  it.  It 
makes  her  deadly  sick,  and  the  boys  all  hate 

her  for  it.    Her  father  says  it's  da I  was 

going  to  say  his  cuss  word,  but  I  guess  I 
won't.  Anyhow,  he  says  it's  all  nonsense 
and  put  on.  I  guess  I  better  go.  There  is 
her  father  looking  for  us.  Poor  Fan'll  catch 
it  when  we  get  home!  Good-night.  I've 
had  a  lovely  time,  haven't  you?"  She 
waved  her  hand.  Then  she  retraced  the 
step  she  had  taken.  "  Don't  tell  that  I  don't 
like  tobacco,"  she  said,  and  started  away 
laughing.     He  followed  her  a  few  steps. 

"How  is  any  fellow  to  know  what  you 
really  do  like  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling,  "  if  you 
do  that  way?" 

"Fan  says  nobody  wants  to  know,"  she 
said,  slyly.  "She  says  they  want  to  know 
that  I  like  what  they  want  me  to  like,  and 
think  what  they  think  I  think."  She  laughed 
again.     "And  of  course  I  do,"   she   added, 


ftrav>  H>ou,  Sir.  Wbosc  Baugbtert  63 

and  bowed  in  mock  submission.  "Xow,  Fan 
don't.  That's  where  she  misses  it;  and  if 
she  don't — reform,"  she  said,  lowering  her 
voice,  as  she  neared  that  young-  lady's 
father,  "  she  is  going  to  see  trouble  that  is 
trouble.  I'll  bet  a  cent  on  it.  Don't  you?" 
she  asked,  as  she  bestowed  a  bright  smile 
upon  Mr.  King. 

"Yes,"  said  Avery,  and  lifting  his  hat, 
turned  on  his  heel  and  was  lost  in  the 
crowd. 

"Where's  Fan?"  inquired  that  young 
lady's  father  in  a  tone  which  indicated  that, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  she  was  up  to  some 
devilment  again. 

"  She  got  a  headache  and  went  home 
quite  a  while  ago,"  said  that  young  lady's 
loyal  little  friend.  "She  enjoyed  it  quite  a 
lot  till  she  did  get  a  headache."  As  they 
neared  the  street  where  both  lived,  Ettie 
said:  "  That  man  talked  to  her,  and  I  think 
she  liked  him." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Mr.  King.  "  I  wouldn't 
be  surprised.  She'd  be  likely  to  take  to  a 
lunatic.  I  thought  he  was  about  the  damned- 
est fool  I  ever  saw;  didn't  you?  ': 


64  IPraE  JUou,  Sir,  TlXIlboee  ©augbtcr? 

"  Yes,"  said  Ettie,  laughing,  "  and  I  liked 
him  for  it." 

Mr.  King  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
"Of  course  you  did!  You'd  like  the  devil. 
You're  that  easy  to  please.  I  wish  to  the 
Lord  Fan  was,"  and  with  a  hearty  "  good- 
night," he  left  her  at  her  father's  door,  and 
crossed  the  street. 

Once  outside  the  garden,  Avery  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  little  pamphlet  which 
his  club  friend  had  given  him,  and  ran  his 
finger  down  the  list. 

"  King,  member  the  —  ah,  ha !  one  end  of 
his  ward  joins  mine!  'M-m-m;  yes,  I  see. 
He  is  one  of  the  butchers.  I  suspected  as 
much.  Let  me  see ;  yes,  he  votes  my  ticket, 
too.  If  I'm  elected  we'll  be  comrades-in- 
arms,  so  to  speak.  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
have  told  him  who  I  was ;  but  if  I'm  elected 
he'll  find  out  soon  enough,  and  if  I'm  beaten 
—  Avell,  I  can't  say  that  I'm  anxious  to  ex- 
tend the  acquaintance."  He  replaced  the 
book  in  his  pocket  as  the  guard  called  out, 
f  Thirty-Fourth  Street !  'strain  for  Arlem ! ' 
and  left  the  train,  musing  as  he  strolled 
along.     "Yes,  Gertrude  was  quite  right  — 


lprag  ]l>ou,  Sir,  "OClboac  Baugbter?  65 

quite.  "We  fortunate  ones  have  no  right  to 
allow  all  this  sort  of  thing  to  go  on.  We 
have  no  right  to  leave  it  entirely  to  such 
men  as  that  to  make  the  laws.  I  don't  care 
if  the  fellows  up  at  the  club  do  guy  me. 
Gertrude  — "  He  drew  from  his  breast- 
pocket a  little  note,  and  read  it  for  the  tenth 
time. 

"  I  am  so  gratified  to  hear  that  you  have 
accepted  the  nomination,"  it  said.  r  You 
have  the  time,  and  mental  and  moral  equip- 
ment to  give  to  the  work.  Were  I  a  man, 
I  should  not  sleep  o'  nights  until  some  way 
was  devised  to  prevent  all  the  terrible  pov- 
erty and  ignorance  and  brutishness  we  were 
talking  about  the  other  day.  I  went  to  see 
that  Spillini  family  again.  I  was  afraid  to 
go  alone,  so  I  took  with  me  two  girls  who 
are  in  a  sewing  class,  which  is,  just  now,  a 
fad  at  our  Church  Guild.  I  thought  their 
experience  with  poverty  would  enable  them 
to  think  of  a  way  to  get  at  this  case ;  but  it 
did  not.  They  appeared  to  think  it  was  all 
right.  It  seems  to  me  that  ignorance  and 
poverty  leave  no  room  for  thought,  or  even 
for  much  feeling.    It  hurt  me  like  a  knife  to 


66  ff>raB  |}ou,  Sir,  Wboee  Baugbter? 

have  those  girls  laugh  over  it  after  we  came 
out;  at  least,  one  of  them  laughed,  and  the 
other  seemed  scornful.  It  is  not  fair  to  ex- 
pect more  of  them,  I  know,  for  we  expect  so 
little  of  ourselves.  It  is  thinking  of  all  this 
that  makes  me  write  to  tell  you  how  glad  I 
am  that  you  are  to  represent  your  district  in 
Albany.  Such  men  are  needed,  for  I  know 
you  will  work  for  the  poor  with  the  skill  of 
a  trained  intellect  and  a  sympathetic  heart. 
I  am  so  glad.  Sincerely  your  friend,  Ger- 
trude Foster." 

Mr.  Avery  replaced  the  note  in  his 
pocket,  and  smiled  contentedly.  "I  don't 
care  a  great  deal  what  the  fellows  at  the 
club  say,"  he  iepeated.  "I'm  satisfied,  if 
Gertrude  — "  He  had  spoken  the  last  few 
words  almost  audibly,  and  the  name  startled 
him.  He  realized  for  the  first  time  that  he 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  thinking  of  her 
as  Gertrude,  and  it  suddenly  flashed  upon 
him  that  Miss  Foster  might  be  a  good  deal 
surprised  by  that  fact  if  she  knew  it.  He 
fell  to  wondering  if  she  would  also  be  an- 
noyed. There  was  a  tinge  of  anxiety  in  the 
speculation.     Then  it  occurred  to  him  that 


Ipras  you,  Sir,  Timbose  Baugbter?  67 

the  sewing  class  of  the  Guild  might  give  an 
outlet  and  a  chance  for  a  bit  of  pleasure  to 
that  strange  girl  he  had  seen  at  Grady's 
Pavilion,  and  he  made  a  little  memorandum, 
and  decided  to  call  upon  Gertrude  and  sug- 
gest it  to  her.  He  fell  asleep  that  night  and 
dreamed  of  Gertrude  Foster,  holding  out  a 
helping  hand  to  a  strange,  tall  girl,  with 
dissatisfied  eyes,  and  that  Ettie.Berton  was 
laughing  gaily  and  making  everybody  com- 
fortable, by  asserting  that  she  liked  every- 
thing exactly  as  she  found  it. 


68  prag  l>ou,  Sir,  TMlbose  BaugbterT 


VI. 

The  next  evening  Avery  called  upon  Ger- 
trude to  thank  her  for  her  letter,  and,  inci- 
dentally, to  tell  her  of  the  experience  at 
Grady's  Pavilion,  and  bespeak  the  good 
office  of  the  Guild  for  those  two  human 
pawns,  who  had,  somehow,  weighed  upon 
his  heart. 

Avery  was  not  a  Churchman  mmself,  but 
he  felt  very  sure  that  any  Guild  which 
would  throw  Gertrude  Foster's  influence  . 
about  less  fortunate  girls,  would  be  good, 
so  he  gave  very  little  thought  to  the  phase 
of  it  which  was  not  wholly  related  to  the 
personality  of  the  young  woman  in  whose 
eyes  he  had  grown  to  feel  he  must  appear 
well  and  worthy,  if  he  retained  his  self- 
respect.  This  bar  of  judgment  had  come, 
by  unconscious  degrees,  to  be  the  one  before 
which  he  tried  his  own  cases  for  and  against 
himself. 


1pra£  JJ)ou,  Sir,  THHbose  iDauobter?  69 

"Would  Gertrude  like  it  if  she  should 
know?  Would  I  dislike  to  have  her  know 
that  I  did  this  or  felt  that?"  was  now  so 
constantly  a  part  of  his  mental  processes, 
that  he  had  become  quite  familiar  with  her 
verdicts,  which  were  most  often  passed  — 
from  his  point  of  view,  and  in  his  own  mind 
—  without  the  knowledge  of  the  girl  herself. 

He  had  never  talked  of  love  to  her,  except 
in  the  general  and  impersonal  fashion  of 
young  creatures  who  are  wont  to  eagerly 
discuss  the  profound  perplexities  of  life 
without  having  come  face  to  face  with  one 
of  them.  One  day  they  had  talked  of  love 
in  a  cottage.  The  conversation  had  been 
started  by  the  discussion  of  a  new  novel 
they  had  just  read,  and  Avery  told  her  of  a 
strange  fellow  whom  he  knew,  who  had  mar- 
ried against  the  wishes  of  his  father,  and 
had  been  disinherited. 

"He  lost  his  grip,  somehow,"  said  Avery, 
:?  and  went  from  one  disaster  into  another. 
First  he  lost  his  place,  and  the  little  salary 
they  had  to  live  on  was  stopped.  It  was  no 
fault  of  his.  It  had  been  in  due  course  of  a 
business  change  in  the  firm  he  worked  for. 


70  Pra£  |)ou,  Sir,  Kflbose  ©augbter? 

He  got  another,  but  not  so  good  a  situation, 
but  the  little  debts  that  had  run  up  while  he 
was  idle  were  a  constant  drag  on  him.  He 
never  seemed  able  to  catch  up.  Then  his 
wife's  health  failed.  She  needed  a  change 
of  climate,  rare  and  delicate  food,  a  quiet 
mind  relieved  of  anxiety,  but  he  could  not 
give  her  these.  His  own  nerves  gave  way 
under  the  strain,  and  at  last  sickness  over- 
took him,  and  he  had  to  appeal  to  me  for  a 
loan." 

It  was  the  letter  which  his  friend  had 
written  when  in  that  desperate  frame  of 
mind,  which  Avery  read  to  Gertrude  the 
day  they  had  discussed  the  novel  together. 
It  was  a  strange,  desperate  letter,  and  it  had 
greatly  stirred  Gertrude.  One  passage  in  it 
had  rather  shocked  her.  It  was  this: 
r  When  a  fellow  is  young,  and  knows  little 
enough  of  life  to  accept  the  fictions  of  fic- 
tion as  guides,  he  talks  or  thinks  about  it  as 
?love  in  a  cottage.'  After  he  has  tried  it  a 
while,  and  suffered  in  heart  and  soul  because 
of  his  love  of  those  whom  he  must  see  day 
after  day  handicapped  in  mind  and  wrecked 
in  body  for  the  need  of  larger  means,  he 


pras  fou,  Sir,  TKflbose  Daugbter?  71 

begins  to  speak  of  it  mournfully  as  f  poverty 
with  love.'  But  when  that  awful  day  comes, 
when  sickness  or  misfortune  develops  before 
his  helpless  gaze  all  the  horrors  of  depend- 
ence and  agony  of  mind  that  the  future  out- 
look shows  him,  then  it  is  that  the  fitting 
description  comes,  and  he  feels  like  painting 
above  the  door  he  dreads  to  enter  — r  hell  at 
home.'  Without  the  love  there  would  be  no 
home;  without  the  poverty  no  hell.  Neither 
lightens  the  burdens  of  the  other.  Each 
multiplies  all  that  is  terrible  in  both." 

Gertrude  had  listened  to  the  letter  with  a 
sad  heart.  When  she  did  not  speak,  Avery 
felt  that  he  should  modify  some  of  its  terms 
if  he  would  be  fair  to  his  absent  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  Of  course  he  would  have  worded  it  a 
little  differently  if  he  had  known  that  any- 
one else  would  read  it.  He  was  desperate. 
He  had  gone  through  such  a  succession  of 
disasters.  If  anything  was  going  to  fall  it 
seemed  as  if  he  was  sure  to  be  under  it,  so  I 
don't  much  wonder  at  his  language  after  — '■' 

"I  don't  wonder  at  it  at  all,"  said  Ger- 
trude, looking  steadily  into  the  fire.     ?  What 


72  H>ras  j)ou,  Sir,  TlGlbose  Daughter? 

seems  wonderful,  is  the  facts  which  his 
words  portray.  I  can  see  that  they  are 
facts;  but  what  I  cannot  see  is — is  —  " 

??  How  he  could  express  them  so  raspingly 
—  so — ?  "  began  Avery,  but  she  turned  to 
him  quite  frankly  surprised. 

??  Oh,  no !  Not  that.  But  how  can  it  be 
right  that  it  should  be  so?  And  if  it  is  not 
right,  why  do  not  you  men  who  have  the 
power,  do  something  to  straighten  things 
out?  Is  this  sort  of  suffering  absolutely 
necessary  in  the  world?" 

It  was  this  talk  and  its  suggestions  which 
had  led  Avery  to  first  take  seriously  into 
consideration  the  proposition  that  he  run  for 
a  seat  in  the  Assembly.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  men  like  himself,  who  had  both  leisure 
and  convictions,  might  do  some  good  work 
there,  and  he  began  to  realize  that  the  law- 
making of  the  state  was  left,  for  the  most 
part,  in  very  dangerous  hands,  and  that  a 
law  once  passed  must  inevitably  help  to 
crystalize  public  opinion  in  such  a  way  as 
to  retard  freer  or  better  action. 

w  To  think  of  allowing  that  class  of  men 
to   set   the    standards    about   which   public 


praE  H?out  Sir,  THAbose  Daughter  1  73 

opinion  forms  and  rallies ! '  he  thought,  as 
the  professional  politician  arose  before  him, 
and  his  mind  was  made  up.  He  would  be  a 
candidate.  So  the  night  after  his  experi- 
ence at  Grady's  Pavilion  he  had  another 
puzzle  to  lay  before  Gertrude.  When  he 
entered  the  hallway  he  was  sorry  to  hear 
voices  in  the  drawing-room.  He  had  hoped 
to  find  Gertrude  and  her  mother  alone.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  leave  his  card  and  call 
at  another  time,  but  the  servant,  recogniz- 
ing his  hesitation,  ventured  a  bit  of  informa- 
tion. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Avery,  but  I  don't  think 
they  will  be  here  long.  It's  a  couple  of — 
They  —  " 

"  Thank  you,  James.  Are  they  not  friends 
of  Miss  Gertrude?" 

James  smiled  in  a  manner  which  dis- 
played a  large  capacity  for  pity. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  shouldn't  say  they  was  ex- 
actly friends.  ISTo,  sir,  ner  yet  callers,  sir. 
They're  some  of  them  Guilders." 

Avery  could  not  guess  what  Gertrude 
would  have  gilders  in  the  drawing-room  for 
at  that  hour,  but  decided  to   enter.     "Mr. 


74  Pra^  H?ou,  Sir,  Wbose  DaugbtcrT 

Avery;"  said  James,  in  his  most  formal  and 
perfunctory  fashion,  as  he  drew  back  the 
portiere  and  announced  the  new  arrival.  JSTo 
one  would  have  dreamed  from  the  stolid 
front  presented  by  the  liveried  functionary, 
that  he  had  just  exchanged  confidences  with 
the  guest. 

"  Let  me  introduce  my  friends  to  you,  Mr. 
Avery,"  began  Gertrude,  and  two  figures 
arose,  and  from  one  came  a  gay  little  laugh, 
a  mock  courtesy,  and  "  Law  me !  It's  him ! 
Well,  if  this  don't  beat  the  Dutch !  " 

She  extended  her  hand  to  him  and  laughed 
again.  r  We  didn't  shake  hands  last  night, 
but  now's  we're  regul'rly  interduced  I  guess 
we  will,"  she  added. 

Avery  took  her  hand,  and  then  offered 
his  to  her  companion,  and  bowed  and  smiled 
again. 

w  Really,  I  shall  begin  to  grow  supersti- 
tious," he  said,  in  an  explanatory  tone  to 
Gertrude.  "  I  came  here  to-night  to  see  if 
I  could  arrange  to  have  you  three  young 
ladies  meet;  to  learn  if  there  was  a  chance 
at  the  Guild  to— " 

"Oh,"    smiled     Gertrude,    beginning    to 


IPrag  JL'ou,  Sir,  TlOlbose  Bauflbter?  75 

grasp  the  situation.  "  How  very  nice !  But 
these  two  are  my  star  girls  at  the  Guild 
now.  We  were  just  arranging  some  work 
for  next  week,  but  —  " 

"  Yas,  she  wants  to  go  clown  to  that  Spil- 
lini  hole  agin,"  broke  in  Ettie  Berton,  and 
Francis  King  glanced  suspiciously  from 
Gertrude  to  Avery.  She  wondered  just 
what  these  two  were  thinking.  She  felt 
very  uncomfortable  and  wished  that  he  had 
not  come  in.  She  had  not  spoken  since 
Avery  entered,  and  he  realized  her  discom- 
fort. 

"You  treated  us  pretty  shabbily  last 
night,  Miss  King,"  he  said,  smiling,  and 
then  he  turned  to  Gertrude.  "  She  left  me 
in  the  middle  of  a  remark.  We  met  at 
Grady's  Pavilion,  and  if  I'm  elected,  I  learn 
that  the  fathers  of  both  of  these  young- 
ladies  will  be  my  companions-in-arms  in  the 
Assembly.  They  —  "  In  spite  of  herself, 
Gertrude's  face  showed  her  surprise,  but 
Ettie  Berton  broke  in  with  a  gay  laugh. 

"Are  you  in  politics?  Law  me!  I'd 
never  a  believed  it.  I  don't  see  how  you're 
ao'oin'  to  get  on  unless  you  get  a  —  " 


76  fl>ra£  l>ou,  Sir,  Wbose  2>augbtet? 

She  realized  that  her  remark  was  going  to 
indicate  a  belief  in  certain  incapacity  in  him, 
and  she  took  another  cue. 

"  My  pa  says  nobody  hardly  can't  get  on 
in  politics  by  himself.  You  see  my  pa  is  a 
sort  of  a  starter  for  Fan's  pa  in  politics,  're 
else  he'd  never  got  on  in  the  world.  Fan's 
pa  backs  him,  and  he  starts  things  that  her 
pa  wants  started." 

Francis  moved  uneasily,  and  Gertrude 
said :  "  That  is  natural  enough  since  they 
were  friends  here,  and,  I  think  you  told  me, 
were  in  business  together,  didn't  you?  " 

Ettie  laughed,  and  clapped  her  hands 
gaily.  "  That's  good !  In  business  together ! 
Oh,  Lord,  I'll  tell  pa  that.  He'll  roar.  Why, 
pa  is  a  prerofessional  starter.  He  ain't  in  busi- 
ness with  no  particular  one  only  jest  while 
the  startin's  done." 

The  girl  appeared  to  think  that  Avery 
and  Gertrude  were  quite  familiar  with  pro- 
fessional starters,  and  she  rattled  on  gaily. 

"I  thought  I'd  die  the  time  he  started 
them  butcher  shops  for  Fan's  pa,  though. 
He  hadn't  never  learnt  the  difference  be- 
tween a  rib  roast  'n  a  soup  bone,  'n  he  had 


IPrag  13out  Sir,  tilbose  Baugbter?  77 

to  keep  a  printed  paper  hung  up  inside  o' 
the  ice  chest  so's  he'd  know  which  kind  of  a 
piece  he  got  out  to  sell ;  but  he  talked  so 
nice  an'  smooth  all  the  time  he  was  a  gettin' 
it  out,  an'  tole  each  customer  that  the  piece 
they  asked  fer  was  the  r  choicest  part  of  the 
animal,'  but  that  mighty  few  folks  had  sense 
enough  to  know  it  —  oh,  it  was  funny!  I 
used  to  get  where  I  could  hear  him,  and  jest 
die  a  laughin'.  He'd  sell  the  best  in  the 
shop  for  ten  cents  a  pound,  an'  he'd  cut  it 
which  ever  way  they  ast  him  to,  an'  make 
heavy  weight.  His  price  list  was  a  holy 
show,  but  he  jest  scooped  in  all  the  trade 
around  there  in  no  time,  an'  the  other  shops 
had  to  move.  Then  you  ought  t'  a  seen 
Fan's  pa  come  in  there  an'  brace  things  up ! 
Whew ! "  She  laughed  delightedly,  and 
Francis's  face  flushed. 

"  He  braced  prices  up  so  stiff  that  some  o' 
the  customers  left,  but  most  of  'em  stayed 
rather'n  hunt  up  a  new  place  to  start  books 
in.  Pa,  he'd  started  credit  books  with  all 
of  'em. 

Pa,  he  was  in  the  back  room  the  first  day 
Fan's  pa  and  the  new  clerk  took  the  shop, 


78  pra£  lf}ou,  Sir,  TKIlbosc  Dauflbtcr? 

after  pa  got  it  good'n  started.  Him  an' 
me  most  died  laughin'  at  the  kickm'  o'  the 
people.  Every  last  one  of  'em  ast  fer  pa  to 
wait  on  'em,  but  Fan's  pa  he  told  'em  that 
he'd  bankrupted  hisself  and  had  t'  sell  out 
to  him.  Pa  said  he  wisht  he  had  somethin' 
to  bankrupt  on.  But,  law,  he'll  never  make 
no  money.  He  ain't  built  that  way.  He's 
a  tip-top  perfessional  starter  tho',  ain't  he, 
Fan?  "  she  concluded  with  a  gleeful  reminis- 
cent grimace  at  her  friend.  Francis  shifted 
her  position  awkwardly,  and  tried  to  feel 
that  everything  was  quite  as  it  should  be  in 
good  society,  and  Gertrude  made  a  little 
attempt  to  divert  the  conversation  to  affairs 
of  the  Guild,  but  Ettie  Berton,  who  ap- 
peared to  look  upon  her  father  as  a  huge 
joke,  and  to  feel  herself  most  at  home  in 
discussing  him,  broke  in  again :  — 

"  But  the  time  he  started  the  ?  Stable  fer 
Business  Horses,'  was  the  funniest  yet," 
and  she  laughed  until  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  she  dried  them  with  the  lower 
part  of  the  palms  of  her  hands,  rubbing 
them  red. 

M  The  boss  told  him  not  to  take  anything 


ptas  l?ou,  Sir,  Tldbose  Daughter?  79 

but  business  horses.  What  he  meant  was,  to 
be  sure  not  to  let  in  any  fancy  high-step- 
pers, fer  fear  they'd  get  hurt  or  sick,  an' 
he'd  have  trouble  about  'em.  "Well,  pa 
didn't  understand  at  first,  an'  he  wouldn't 
take  no  mules,  an'  most  all  the  business 
horses  around  there  was  mules,  an'  when 
drivers  'd  ask  him  why  he  wouldn't  feed 
'em  'er  take  'em  in,  he  jest  had  t'  fix  up  the 
,  funniest  stories  y'  ever  heard.  He  tole  one 
man  that  he  hadn't  laid  in  the  kind  o'  feed 
mules  eat,  n'  the  man  told  him  he  was  the 
biggest  fool  to  talk  he  ever  see.  The  mule- 
man  he  —  " 

Francis  King  had  arisen,  and  started 
awkwardly  toward  Gertrude,  with  her  hand 
extended. 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  go,"  she  said,  unea- 
sily, her  large  eyes  burning  with  mortifica- 
tion, and  an  oppressed  sense  of  being  at  a 
disadvantage. 

"  So  soon?"  said  Gertrude,  smiling  as  she 
took  her  hand,  and  laid  her  other  arm  about 
the  shoulders  of  Ettie,  who  had  hastened  to 
place  herself  in  the  group.  :f  I  was  so  en- 
tertained that  I  did  not  realize  that  perhaps 


80  iPra?  JLKrn,  Sir,  Wbose  ©auQbtetl 

you  ought  to  go  before  it  grows  late  —  oh," 
glancing  at  a  tiny  watch  in  her  bracelet,  "it 
is  late — too  late  for  you  to  go  way  down 
there  alone.     I  will  send  James,  or —  " 

"Allow  me  the  pleasure,  will  you  not?" 
asked  Avery,  bowing  first  to  Gertrude,  and 
then  toward  Francis,  and  Gertrude  said :  — 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  if—  "  but  Ettie  clapped 
her  hands  in  glee. 

"Well,  that's  too  rich!  Just  as  if  we 
didn't  go  around  by  ourselves  all  the  time, 
and  —  Lord !  pa  says  if  anybody  carries  me 
off  he'd  only  go  as  far  as  the  lamp-post,  and 
drop  me  as  soon  as  the  light  struck  me! 
Now  Fan's  pretty,  but —  "  she  laughed,  and 
'made  clawing  movements  in  the  air.  "  No- 
body '11  get  away  with  Queen  Fan  's  long  's 
she's  got  finger-nails  'n  teeth."  She  snapped 
her  pretty  little  white  teeth  together  with 
mock  viciousness,  and  laughed  again.  "  I'd 
just  pity  the  fellow  that  tried  any  tomfool- 
ery with  Queen  Fan.  He'd  wish  he'd  died 
young! " 

They  all  laughed  a  bit  at  this  sally,  and 
Avery  said  he  did  not  want  Miss  King  to  be 
forced  to  extremities  in  self-protection  while 


|pra£  13ou,  Sir,  TlClbose  S>augbter?  81 

he  was  able  to  relieve  her  of  the  necessity. 

When  James  closed  the  door  behind  the 
laughing  group,  he  glanced  at  Miss  Ger- 
trude to  see  what  she  thought  of  it,  but  he 
remarked  to  Susan  later  on,  that  "  Miss 
Gertrude  looked  as  if  she  was  born  'n 
brought  up  that  way  herself.  She  didn't 
show  no  amusement  ner  no  sarcasm  in  her 
face.  An'  as  fer  Mr.  Avery,  it  was  nothing 
short  of  astonishing,  to  see  him  offer  his 
arms  to  those  two  Guilders  as  they  started 
down  the  avenue." 

And  Susan  ventured  it  as  her  present  be- 
lief, that  if  Gertrude's  father  once  caught 
any  of  her  Guilders  around,  he'd  "  make 
short  work  of  the  whole  business.  She 
ought  't  be  ashamed  o'  herself,  so  she  ought. 
Ketch  me,  if  I  was  in  her  shoes,  a  consortin' 
with  —  " 

"  Anybody  but  me,  Susie,"  put  in  the  de- 
voted James;  but  alas,  for  him,  the  stiff, 
unyielding  hooked  joint  of  his  injured  finger 
came  first  in  contact  with  the  wrist  of  the 
fair  Susan  as  he  essayed  to  clasp  her  hand, 
and  she  evaded  the  grasp  and  flung  out  of 


82  1pra£  fern,  Sir,  Wbose  2>augbter? 

the  room  with  a  shiver.  "  Keep  that  old 
twisted  base  ball  bat  off  o'  me !  "     I  —  " 

"  Oh,  Susie !  "  said  James,  dolefully,  to 
himself,  as  he  slowly  surrounded  the  offend- 
ing member  with  the  folds  of  his  handker- 
chief, which  gave  it  the  appearance  of  being 
in  hospital.     "Oh,  Susie!  how  Mn  you?" 

When  John  Martin,  on  his  way,  intending 
to  drop  in  for  the  last  act  of  the  opera, 
passed  Gertrude's  door  just  in  time  to  see 
Avery  and  the  two  girls  come  down  the 
steps,  his  lip  curled  a  bit,  and  his  heart  per- 
formed that  strange  feat  which  loving  hearts 
have  achieved  in  all  the  ages  past,  in  spite 
of  reason  and  of  natural  impulses  of  kind- 
ness. It  took  on  a  distinctly  hard  feeling 
towards  Avery,  and  this  feeling  was  not 
unmixed  with  resentment.  "How  dare  he 
take  girls  like  that  to  her  house?  I  was  a 
fool  to  take  her  to  the  Spillinis,  but  I'd 
never  be  idiot  enough  to  take  that  type  of 
girl  to  her  house.  Avery's  political  freak 
has  dulled  his  sense  of  propriety." 

Mr.  Martin  wondered  vaguely  if  he  ought 
not  to  say  something  to  Gertrude's  father, 
and  then  he  thought  it  might  possibly  be 


prag  foil,  Sir,  l&bose  ©augbter?  83 

better  to  touch  lightly  upon  it  himself  in 
talking  to  her. 

He  had  heard  some  gossip  at  the  opera 
and  in  the  club,  which  indicated  that  society 
did  not  approve  altogether  of  some  of  the 
things  Gertrude  had  recently  said  and  done ; 
but  that  it  smiled  approvingly  at  what  it 
believed  to  be  as  good  as  an  engagement 
between  the  young  lady  and  Selden  Avery. 
Martin  ground  his  teeth  now  as  he  thought 
of  it,  and  glanced  again  at  the  retreating 
forms  of  Avery  and  the  two  girls. 

"  It  was  that  visit  to  the  Spillinis,  and  the 
revelations  of  life  which  it  gave  her,  that 
is  to  blame  for  it  all,"  he  groaned.  "  I  was 
an  accursed  fool  —  an  accursed  fool ! ' 

That  night  Gertrude  lay  thinking  how 
charmingly  Selden  Avery  had  met  the  situa- 
tion, and  how  well  he  had  helped  carry  it  off 
with  Ettie  and  Francis.  :?He  seemed  to 
look  at  it  all  just  as  I  do,"  she  thought.  I 
felt  that  I  knew  just  what  he  was  thinking, 
and  he  certainly  guessed  that  I  wanted  him 
to  see  them  home,  exactly  as  if  they  had 
been  girls  of  our  own  set.  Poor  little  Ettie! 
I  wonder  what  we  can  do  with,  or  for,  such 


84  iprag  iou,  Sir,  mbose  Daughter? 

as  she?  She  is  so  hopelessly  —  happy  and 
ignorant."  Then  she  fell  asleep,  and 
dreamed  of  rescuing  Ettie  from  the  fangs 
of  a  maddened  dog,  and  Francis  stood  by 
and  looked  scornfully  at  Gertrude's  lacer- 
ated hands,  and  then  pointed  to  her  little 
friend's  mangled  body  and  the  smile  upon 
her  dead  lips. 

:f  She  never  knew  what  hurt  her,  and  she 
teased  the  dog  to  begin  with,"  she  said. 
r  You  are  maimed  for  life,  and  may  go  mad, 
just  trying  to  help  her  —  and  she  never 
knew  and  she  never  cared."  Gertrude's 
dream  had  strayed  and  wandered  into  vaga- 
ries without  form  or  outline,  and  in  the 
morning  nothing  of  it  was  left  but  an  unrea- 
sonably heavy  heart,  and  a  restless  desire  to 
do  —  she  knew  not  what. 


pras  l>ou,  sir,  l&boae  2>augbter7  85 


VIL 

"When  Avery  took  his  seat  in  the  Assem- 
bly he  learned  that  Ettie  Berton's  father  had 
been  true  to  his  calling.  He  still  might  be 
described  as  a  professional  starter.  Any 
bill  which  was  in  need  of  some  one  to  either 
introduce  or  offer  a  speech  in  its  favor,  found 
in  John  Berton  an  ever-ready  champion. 

]STot  that  he  either  understood  or  believed 
in  all  the  bills  he  presented  or  advocated. 
Belief  and  understanding  were  not  for  sale ; 
nor,  indeed,  were  they  always  very  much 
within  his  own  grasp.  He  was  in  the  Leg- 
islature to  promote,  or  start,  such  meas- 
ures as  stood  in  need  of  his  peculiar  abilities. 
This  was  very  soon  understood,  and  many  a 
bill  which  other  men  feared  or  hesitated  to 
present,  found  its  way  to  him  and  through 
him  to  a  reading.  For  a  while  Avery 
watched  this  process  with  amusement.  He 
wrote  to  Gertrude,  from  time  to  time,  some 


86  ftras  Jl)out  Sir,  Timbose  Daugbter? 

very  humorous  letters  about  it;  but  finally, 
one  day  a  letter  came  which  so  bitterly  de- 
nounced both  King  and  Berton,  that  Ger- 
trude wondered  what  could  have  wrought 
the  sudden  change. 

"  He  has  introduced  a  bill  which  is  now 
before  my  committee,"  he  wrote,  "that 
passes  all  belief.  It  is  infamous  beyond 
words  to  express,  and,  to  my  dismay,  it  finds 
many  advocates  beside  King  and  Berton. 
That  a  conscienceless  embruted  inmate  of 
an  opium  dive  in  Mott  Street  might  ac- 
knowledge to  himself  in  the  dark,  and  when 
he  was  alone,  that  he  could  advocate  such 
a  measure,  seems  to  me  possible;  but 
men  who  are  in  one  sense  reputable, 
who  —  many  of  them  —  look  upon  them- 
selves as  respectable ;  men  who  are  fathers 
of  girls  and  brothers  of  women,  could  even 
consider  such  a  bill,  I  would  not  have  be- 
lieved possible,  and  yet,  I  am  ashamed  to 
say  that  I  learn  now  for  the  first  time,  that 
our  state  is  not  the  only  one  where  similar 
measures  have  not  only  found  advocates, 
but  where  there  were  enough  moral  lepers 
with  voting  power  to  establish  such  legisla- 


IPrag  iou,  Sic,  TIGlbosc  Dauflbter?  87 

tion.  It  makes  me  heartsick  and  desperate,. 
I  am  ashamed  of  the  human  race.  I  am 
doubly  ashamed  that  it  is  to  my  sex  such 
infamous  laws  are  due. 

"You  were  right,  my  dear  Miss  Gertrude; 
you  were  right.  It  is  outrageous  that  we 
allow  mere  conscienceless  politicians  to  leg- 
islate for  respectable  people,  and  yet  my 
position  here  is  neither  pleasant,  nor  will  it,  I 
fear,  be  half  so  profitable  as  you  hope  —  as 
I  hoped,  before  I  came  and  learned  all  I  now 
know.  But,  believe  me,  I  shall  vote  on 
every  bill  and  make  every  speech,  with  your 
face  before  me,  and  as  if  I  were  making  that 
particular  law  to  apply  particularly  to  you." 

Gertrude  smiled  as  she  re-read  that  part 
of  his  letter. 

She  wondered  what  awful  bill  Ettie's 
father  had  presented.  She  had  never  before 
thought  that  a  legislator  might  strive  to 
enact  worse  laws  than  he  already  found  in 
the  statute  books.  She  had  thought  most 
of  the  trouble  was  that  they  did  not  take 
the  time  and  energy  to  repeal  old,  bad  laws 
that  had  come  to  us  from  an  ignorant  or 
brutal  past. 


88  ipras  l£ou,  Sir,  Wbose  2>augbter? 

It  struck  her  as  a  good  idea,  that  a  man 
should  never  vote  on  a  measure  that  he  did 
not  feel  he  was  making  a  rule  of  action  to 
apply  to  the  woman  for  whom  he  cared 
most;  she  knew  now  that  she  was  that 
woman  for  Selden  Avery.  He  had  told  her 
that  the  night  he  came  to  bring  the  newa 
that  he  was  elected.  It  had  been  told  in 
a  strangely  simple  way. 

Her  father  and  mother  had  laughingly 
congratulated  him  upon  his  election,  and 
Mr.  Foster  had  added,  banteringly :  "  If  one 
may  congratulate  a  man  upon  taking  a 
descent  like  that." 

Gertrude  had  held  one  of  her  father's 
hands  in  her  own,  and  tried  by  gentle  pres- 
sure to  check  him.  Her  father  laughed, 
and  added :  "  The  little  woman  here  is  try- 
ing to  head  me  off.  She  appears  to 
think  —  " 

"Papa,"  said  Gertrude,  extending  her 
other  hand  to  Avery,  "  I  do  think  that  Mr. 
Avery  is  to  be  congratulated  that  he  has 
the  splendid  courage  to  try  to  do  something 
distinctly  useful  for  other  people,  than  sim- 
ply for  the  few  of  us  who  are  outside  or 


Prag  l?ou,  Sir,  TKHbose  DausbterT  89 

above  most  of  the  horrors  of  life.     I  do  —  " 

Avery  suddenly  lifted  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  and  his  eyes  told  the  rest.  "  Mr.  Fos- 
ter," he  said,  still  holding  the  girl's  hand, 
and  blushing  painfully,  "there  can  never 
be  but  one  horror  in  the  world  too  awful  for 
me  to  face,  and  that  would  be  to  lose  the 
full  respect  and  confidence  of  your  daugh- 
ter. I  know  I  have  those  now,  and  for  the 
rest  — "  He  glanced  again  at  Gertrude. 
She  was  pale,  and  she  was  looking  with  an 
appeal  in  her  eyes  to  her  mother. 

Mrs  Foster  moved  a  step  nearer,  and  put 
her  arm  about  the  girl.  "  For  the  rest,  Mr. 
Avery,  for  the  rest  —  later  on,  later  on,"  she 
said,  kindly.  "  Gertrude  has  traveled  very 
fast  these  past  few  months,  but  she  is  her 
mother's  girl  yet."  Then  she  smiled  kindly, 
and  added:  "Gertrude  has  set  a  terrible 
standard  for  the  man  she  will  care  for.  I 
tremble  for  him  and  I  tremble  for  her." 

"  Tut,  tut,"  said  her  father,  "  there  are  no 
standards  in  love  —  none  whatever.  Love 
has  its  own  way,  and  standards  crumble  —  " 

"In  the  past,  perhaps.  But  in  the  fu' 
ture — "  began  his  wife. 


90  prag  !?ou,  Sir,  nabosc  Bauabter? 

"In  the  future,"  said  Gertrude,  as  she 
drew  nearer  to  her  mother,  "  In  the  future 
they  may  not  need  to  crumble,  because, — 
because  — "  Her  eyes  met  Avery's,  and 
fell.  She  saw  that  his  muscles  were  tense, 
and  his  face  was  unhappy. 

"  Because  men  will  be  great  enough  and 
true  enough  to  rise  to  the  ideals,  and  not 
need  to  crumble  the  ideals  to  bring  them  to 
their  level." 

Avery  bent  forward  and  grasped  her  hand 
that  was  within  her  mother's. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  tremulously. 
"  Thank  you,  oh,  darling !  and  the  rest  can 
wait,"  he  said,  to  Mrs.  Foster,  and  dropping 
both  hands,  he  left  the  room  and  the  house. 

Gertrude  ran  up-stairs  and  locked  her 
door. 

Mr.  Foster  turned  to  his  wife  with  a  half 
amused,  half  vexed  face.  "Well,  this  is  a 
pretty  kettle  of  fish.  What's  to  become  of 
Martin,  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

"John  Martin  has  never  had  a  ghost  of  a 
chance  at  any  time  —  never,"  said  his  wife, 
slowly  trailing  her  gown  over  the  rug,  and 
dragging  with   it   a   small   stand  that  had 


IPrag  JL'ou,  Sir,  llElbose  Daugbter?  91 

caught  its  carved  claw  in  the  lace.  It  top- 
pled and  fell  with  a  crash.  The  beautiful 
vase  it  had  held  was  in  fragments. 

"  Oh,  Katharine !  "  exclaimed  her  husband, 
springing  forward  to  disengage  her  lace. 
"Oh,  it  is  too  bad,  isn't  it?" 

And  Katherine  Foster  burst  into  tears, 
and  with  her  arms  suddenly  thrown  about 
her  husband's  neck  she  sobbed :  "  Oh,  yes,  it 
is  too  bad !  It  is  too  bad ! "  But  it  did  not 
seem  possible  to  her  husband  that  the  broken 
vase  could  have  so  affected  her,  and  surely 
no  better  match  could  be  asked  for  Gertrude. 
It  could  not  be  that.  He  was  deeply  per- 
plexed, and  Katherine  Foster,  with  a  search- 
ing look  in  her  face,  kissed  him  sadly  as  one 
might  kiss  the  dead,  and  went  to  her 
daughter's  room. 

She  tapped  lightly  and  then  said,  "It  is 
I,  daughter." 

The  girl  opened  the  door  and  as  quickly 
closed  and  locked  it.  Instantly  their  arms 
were  around  each  other  and  both  were  close 
to  tears. 

"Don't  try  to  talk,  darling,"  whispered 
Mrs.   Foster,  as   they  sat   down  upon   the 


92  ipras  JfJou,  Sir,  limbose  2>augbter7 

couch.  "Don't  try  to  talk.  I  understand 
better  than  you  do  yet,  and  oh,  Gertrude, 
your  mother  loves  you !  " 

"Yes,  mamma"  said  the  girl,  hoarsely. 
"Dear  little  mamma — poor  little  mamma, 
we  all  love  you;"  and  Mrs.  Foster  sighed. 


IPrag  H?ou,  Sir,  Tuabcse  Baugbtec?  93 


vm. 

The  clay  Gertrude  received  Avery's  letter 
about  bill  number  408,  she  asked  her  father 
what  the  bill  was  about.  He  looked  at  her 
in  surprise,  and  then  at  his  wife.  "I  don't 
know  anything  about  it,  child,"  he  said; 
"Why?" 

Gertrude  drew  from  her  pocket  Avery's 
letter  and  read  that  part  of  it.  Her  father's 
face  clouded. 

"  What  business  has  he  to  worry  you  with 
his  dirty  political  work?  I  infer  from  what 
he  says  that  it  is  a  bill  that  I've  only  heard 
mentioned  once  or  twice.  The  sort  of  thing 
they  do  in  secret  sessions  andjveep  from  the 
newspapers  in  the  main.  That  is,  they  are 
only  barely  named  in  the  paper  and  under  a 
number  or  heading  which  people  don't  under- 
stand. I'm  disgusted  with  Avery — per- 
fectly!" 

Gertrude  was   surprised,  but  with   that 


s)4  IPrag  i)ou,  Sir,  "TOose  Daughter? 

ignorance  and  absolute  sincerity  of  youth, 
she  appealed  to  her  mother. 

"Mamma,  do  you  see  any  reason  why, 
from  that  letter,  papa  should  be  vexed  with 
Mr.  Avery?  It  seemed  to  me  to  have  just 
the  right  tone ;  but  I  am  sorry  he  did  not 
tell  me  just  what  the  bill  is." 

"You  let  me  catch  him  telling  you,  if  it's 
what  I  think  it  is,"  retorted  her  father,  rather 
hotly.  "It's  not  fit  for  your  ears.  Good 
women  have  no  business  with  such  know- 
ledge and — " 

Mrs.  Foster  held  up  a  warning  linger  to 
her  daughter,  but  the  girl  had  not  been 
convinced. 

"Don't  good  men  know  such  things, 
papa?  Don't  such  bills  deal  with  people  in 
a  way  which  will  touch  women,  too?  I 
can't  see  why  you  put  it  that  way.  If  a  bill 
is  to  be  passed  into  a  law,  and  it  is  of  so 
vile  a  nature  as  you  say  and  as  this  letter 
indicates,  in  whose  interest  is  it  to  be  silent 
or  ignorant?  Do  you  want  such  a  bill 
passed?     Would  mamma  or  I? 

Her  father  laughed,  and  rose  from  the 
table.      "It   is   in  the   interest   of   nothing 


IPras  i)ou,  Sir,  "WHbosc  2>au0bter?  95 

good.  No,  I  should  say  if  you  or  your 
mother,  or  airy  other  respectable  mother 
at  all,  were  in  the  Legislature,  no  such 
bill  would  have  a  ghost  of  a  chance ;  but  — " 

Gertrude's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her 
father.  They  were  very  wide  open  and 
perplexed. 

"Then  it  can  be  only  in  the  interest  of 
the  vilest  and  lowest  of  the  race  that  good 
men  keep  silent,  and  prefer  to  have  good 
women  ignorant  and  helpless  in  such —  " 
she  began;  but  her  father  turned  at  the 
door  and  said,  nervously  and  almost  sharply, 
"Gertrude,  if  Avery  has  no  more  sense 
than  to  start  you  thinking  about  such 
things,  I  advise  you  to  cut  his  acquaintance. 
Such  topics  are  not  fit  for  women ;  I  am  per- 
fectly disgusted  with —  " 

As  he  was  passing  out  of  the  dining- 
room,  John  Martin  entered  the  street  door 
and  faced  him.  "  Hello,  Martin !  Glad  to 
see  you!  The  ladies  are  still  at  luncheon; 
won't  you  come  right  in  here  and  join  them 
in  a  cup  of  chocolate?  " 

He  was  heartily  glad  of  the  interruption, 


96  ipras  l£ou,  Sir,  mhoee  Daugbter? 

and  felt  that  it  was  very  timely  indeed  that 
Mr.  Martin  had  dropped  in. 

"  No,  I  can't  take  off  my  top-coat.  Get 
yours.  I  want  you  to  join  me  in  a  spin  in 
the  park.  I've  got  that  new  filly  outside." 
Mr.  Foster  ran  up-stairs  to  get  ready  for  the 
drive,  and  the  ladies  insisted  that  a  cup  of 
hot  chocolate  was  the  very  thing  to  prepare 
Mr.  Martin  for  the  nipping  air.  He  was  a 
trifle  ill  at  ease.  He  wanted  to  speak  of 
Sclden  Avery,  and  he  feared  if  he  did  so 
that  he  would  say  the  wrong  thing.  He 
had  come  to-day,  partly  to  have  a  talk  with 
his  friend  Foster  about  certain  gossip  he 
had  heard.     Fate  took  the  reins. 

In  rising,  Gertrude  had  dropped  Avery's 
letter.  John  Martin  was  the  first  to  see  it. 
He  laughingly  offered  it  to  her  with  the 
query:  "Do  you  sow  your  love  letters  about 
that  way,  Miss  Gertrude  V  " 

*  Gertrude's  love  letters  take  the  form  of 
political  speeches  just  now,  and  bills  and 
committee  reports  and  the  like,"  laughed 
her  mother.  Her  father  was  just  showing 
his  teeth  over  that  one.  He  thinks  women 
have  no —  " 


pras  L'ou,  Sic,  THabose  Baugbter?  97 

w  Mr.  Martin,  tell  me  truly,"  broke  in  the 
girl,  "  tell  me  truly,  don't  you  think  that  we 
are  all  equally  interested  in  having  only 
good  laws  made?  And  don't  you  think  if 
a  proposed  measure  is  too  bad  for  good 
women  even  to  be  told  what  it  is>  that  it  is 
bad  enough  for  all  good  people  to  protest 
against  ?  " 

"How  are  they  going  to  protest  if  they 
don't  know  what  it  is?"  laughed  Martin. 
"  Well,  Miss  Gertrude,  I  believe  that  is  the 
first  time  I  ever  suspected  you  to  be  of 
Celtic  blood.  But  what  dreadful  measure 
is  Avery  advocating  now?"  he  smiled. 
"Really,  I  shouldn't  have  believed  it  of 
Avery!  " 

"What!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Foster,  entering 
with  his  top-coat  buttoned  to  the  chin,  and 
his  driving-hat  in  hand.  Gertrude  still  held 
the  letter.  "  No,  nor  should  I  have  believed 
it  of  Avery.  It  was  an  outrageous  thing 
for  him  to  do.  What  business  has  Gertrude 
or  Ivatherine  with  his  disgusting  old  bills. 
Just  before  you  came  in  I  advised  Gertrude 
to  cut  him  entirely,  and — " 

Mrs.  Foster  was  trying  to  indicate  to  her 


98  fl>ras  Jjou,  Sir,  mbose  Daugbter? 

husband  that  he  was  off  the  track,  and  that 
Mr.  Martin  did  not  understand  him ;  but  he 
had  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  went  on.  "  You 
agree  with  me  now,  don't  you?  What  do 
you  think  of  his  mentioning  such  things  to 
Gertrude?"  He  reached  over  and  took  the 
letter  from  his  daughter's  hand,  and  read  a 
part  of  the  obnoxious  paragraph. 

John  Martin's  face  was  a  study.  He 
glanced  at  the  two  ladies,  and  then  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  Gertrude's  father. 

"  Good  Gad!  "  he  said,  slowly  and  almost 
below  his  breath.  "  If  I  were  in  your  place 
I  should  shoot  him.  The  infamous  —  "  He 
checked  himself,  and  the  two  men  withdrew. 
Gertrude  and  her  mother  waved  at  them 
from  the  window,  and  then  the  girl  said: 
"  I  intend  to  know  what  that  bill  is.  What 
right  have  men  to  make  laws  that  they 
themselves  believe  are  too  infamous  for 
good  women  even  to  know  about?  Don't 
you  believe  if  all  laws  or  bills  had  to  be 
openly  discussed  before  and  with  women,  it 
would  be  better,  mamma?     I  do." 

Her  mother's  cheek  was  against  the  cold 
glass    of   the   window.     She  was  watching 


pras  l!?ou,  Sir,  IKIlbose  ©augbter?  99 

"the  receding  forms.  Presently  she  turned 
slowly  to  her  daughter  and  said,  in  a  trem- 
bling tone : — 

"Such  bills  as  this  one,"  she  drew  a  small 
printed  slip  from  her  bosom  and  handed  it 
to  Gertrude,  w  such  bills  as  that  would  never 
be  dreamed  of  by  men  if  they  knew  they 
must  pass  the  discussion  of  a  pure  girl  or  a 
mother — never!  Their  only  chance  is 
secret  session,  and  the  fact  that  even  men 
like  your — like  Mr.  Martin  and — and — " 
she  was  going  to  say  "your  father,"  but  the 
girl  pressed  her  hand  and  she  did  not. 
"That  even  such  as  they — for  what  reason 
heaven  only  knows — think  they  are  serving 
the  best  interests  of  the  women  they  love  by 
a  silence  which  fosters  and  breeds  just  such 
measures  as — " 

Gertrude  was  reading  the  queer,  blind 
phraseology  of  the  bill.  Katherine  had 
watched  her  daughter's  face  as  she  talked, 
and  now  the  girl's  lips  were  moving  and  she 
read  audibly:  "be,  and  is  hereby  enacted, 
that  henceforth  the  legal  age  in  the  state  of 
New  York  whereat  a  female  may  give  con- 


100  pra$  H?ou,  Sir,  "Cdbosc  Daughter? 

sent  to  the  violation  of  her  own  person  shall 
be  reduced  to  ten  years." 

Gertrude  dropped  the  paper  in  her  lap  and 
looked  up  like  a  frightened,  hunted  creature. 
"  Great  God ! "  she  exclaimed,  with  an  inten- 
sity born  of  a  sudden  revelation.  "Great 
God!  and  they  call  themselves  men!  And 
other  men  keep  silence — furnish  all  the  soil 
and  nurture  for  infamy  like  that!  Those 
who  keep  silence  are  as  guilty  as  the  rest! 
Those  who  try  to  prevent  women  from  know- 
ing—  oh,  mamma !  "  Her  eyes  were  intense. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet ;  "  and  John  Martin, 
who  thinks  he  loves  me  is  one  of  those  men ! 
Knowing  such  a  bill  as  that  is  pending,  his 
indignation  is  aroused,  not  at  the  bill,  not  at 
the  men  who  try  to  smuggle  it  through,  not 
at  the  awful  thing  it  implies,  but  that  so 
strict  a  silence  is  not  kept  that  such  as  we 
may  not  know  of  it!  He  blames  Selden 
Avery  for  coming  to  me — to  us — with  his 
splendid  chivalry,  and  sharing  with  us  his 
horror,  making  us  the  confidants  of  that 
inner  conscience  which  sees,  in  the  intended 
victims  of  this  awful  bill,  his  little  sisters  and 
yours   and  mine!"     There  were  indignant 


pras  H?ou,  Sir,  Tldbosc  Daugbter?  101 

tears  in  her  eyes.  She  closed  them,  and  her 
white  lips  were  drawn  tense.  Presently  she 
asked,  without  opening  her  eyes :  "  Mamma, 
do  yon  suppose  if  yon,  instead  of  Mr.  Avery, 
were  chairman  of  that  committee,  that  such  a 
bill  as  that  would  ever  have  been  presented? 
Do  you  suppose,  if  any  mother  on  earth  held 
the  veto  power,  that  such  a  bill  would  ever 
disgrace  a  statute  book?  Are  there  enough 
men,  even  of  a  class  who  generally  go  to 
the  Legislature,  who,  in  spite  of  their  father- 
hood, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  have  little 
sisters,  are  such  beasts  as  to  pass  a  bill  like 
that?  A  ten-year-old  girl!  A  mere  baby! 
And  —  oh,  mamma!  it  is  too  hideous  to 
believe,  even  of — such  a  bill  coidd  never 
pass.  Never  on  earth !  Surely,  Ettie  Berton, 
poor  little  thing,  has  the  only  father  living 
who  is  capable  of  that ! " 

Mrs.  Foster  opened  her  lips  to  say  that 
several  states  already  had  the  law,  and  that 
one  had  placed  the  age  at  seven;  but  she 
checked  herself.  Her  daughter's  excitement 
was  so  great,  she  decided  to  wait.  The 
experience  of  the  past  few  months  had 
awakened  the  fire  in  the  nature  of  this  strong 


102  f»ras  l?out  Sir,  Wboee  Baugbter? 

daughter  of  hers.  She  had  seen  the  cool, 
steady,  previously  indifferent,  well-poised 
girl  stirred  to  the  very  depths  of  her  nature 
over  the  awful  conditions  of  poverty,  igno- 
rance, and  vice  she  had,  for  the  first  time, 
learned  to  know.  Gertrude  had  become  a 
regular  student  of  some  of  the  problems  of 
life,  and  she  had  carried  her  studies  into 
practical  investigation.  It  had  grown  to  be 
no  new  thing  for  her  to  take  Francis,  or  Ettie, 
or  both,  when  she  went  on  these  errands, 
and  the  study  of  their  points  of  view — of 
the  effect  of  it  all  upon  their  ignorance- 
soaked  minds,  had  been  one  of  the  most 
touching  things  to  her.  Their  imaginations 
were  so  stimted — so  embryonic,  so  unde- 
veloped that  they  saw  no  better  way.  To 
them,  ignorance,  poverty,  squalor,  and  vice 
were  a  necessary  part  of  life.  Wealth,  com- 
fort, happiness,  ambition  were,  naturally  and 
rightly,  perquisites,  some  way,  some  how,  of 
the  few. 

"  God  rules,  and  all  is  as  he  wishes  it  or  it 
would  not  be  that  way,"  sagely  remarked 
Francis  King,  one  day.  It  had  startled  Ger- 
trude.    Her  philosophy,  her  observation,  her 


praE  U?ou,  Sir,  TKHbosc  Daugbter?  103 

reason,  and  her  religion  were  in  a  state  of 
conflict  just  then.  She  had  alway  supposed 
that  she  was  an  Episcopalian  with  all  that 
this  implied.  She  was  beginning  to  doubt 
it  at  times. 

Mrs.  Foster  looked  at  her  daughter  now, 
as  she  sat  there  flushed  and  excited.  She 
wondered  what  would  come  of  it  all.  She 
had  always  studied  this  daughter  of  hers, 
and  tried  to  follow  the  girl's  moods.  Now 
she  thought  she  would  cut  across  them. 
"Gertrude,  you  may  put  that  bill  with  your 
letter.  Mr.  Avery  mailed  it  to  me.  Of 
course  he  meant  that  I  should  show  it  to  you 
if  I  thought  best.  I  did  think  best,  but  now 
— but — I  don't  want  you  to  excite  yourself 
too — "  She  broke  off  suddenly.  Her 
daughter's  eyes  were  upon  her  in  surprise. 
Mrs.  Foster  laughed  a  little  nervously,  and 
kissed  the  girl's  hand  as  it  lay  in  her  own. 
"It  seems  rather  droll  for  your  gay  little 
mother  to  caution  you  against  losing  control 
of  yourself,  doesn't  it?"  she  asked.  "You 
who  were  always  all  balance  wheel,  as  your 
father  says.     But — " 

Mamma,  don't  you  think  Mr.  Avery  did 


« 


104         fcras  HJou,  Sir,  Mbose  Dauobter? 

perfectly  right  to  send  me  that  letter  and 
this  to  you?"  broke  in  Gertrude,  as  if  she 
had  not  heard  the  admonition  of  her  mother, 
and  had  followed  her  own  thoughts  from 
some  more  distant  point. 

"Perfectly,"  said  her  mother.  "He  was 
evidently  deeply  disturbed  by  the  bill.  He 
felt  that  you  were,  and  should  be,  his  con- 
fidant. He  simply  did  not  dream  of  hiding 
it  from  you,  I  believe.  It  was  the  sponta- 
neous act  of  one  who  so  loves  you  that  his 
whole  life  —  all  of  that  which  moves  him 
greatly — must,  as  a  matter  of  course,  be  open 
to  you.  1  thought  that  all  out  when  the  bill 
came  addressed  to  me.  He — "  The  girl 
kissed  her  in  silence. 

"You  have  such  splendid  self-respect, 
Gertrude.  Most  of  us — most  women — 
have  none.  We  do  not  expect,  do  not 
demand,  the  least  respect  that  is  real  from 
men.  They  have  no  respect  for  our  opinions, 
and  so  upon  all  the  real  and  important  things 
of  life,  they  hold  out  to  us  the  sham  of 
silence  as  more  respectful  than  candor. 
And  we — most  of  us — are  weak  enough  to 
say  we  like  it.    Most  of  us — " 


iPtaB  iou,  Sir,  Wbosc  Baugbtert         105 

Gertrude  slipped  down  upon  a  cushion  at 
the  feet  of  her  mother,  and  put  her  young, 
strong  arms  about  the  supple  waist.  She 
had  of  late  read  from  time  to  time  so  much 
of  the  unrest  and  scorn  back  of  the  gay  and 
compliant  face  of  her  mother.  "Mamma, 
my  real  mamma,"  she  said,  softly,  "I  am  so 
sorry  for  papa  that  he  should  have  missed  so 
much,  so  much  that  might  have  been  his! 
A  mental  comrade  like  you — " 

"Men  of  your  father's  generation  did  not 
want  mental  comrades  in  their  wives,  Ger- 
trude.    They — " 

"A  telegram,  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  James, 
drawing  aside  the  portiere. 

"The  bill  has  been  rushed  through. 
Passed.  Nineteen  majority.  Avery."  Ger- 
trude read  it  and  handed  it  to  her  mother, 
and  both  women  sat  as  if  stunned  by  a  blow. 


106        prag  lou,  Sir,  TMbosc  2>augbter7 


IX. 

At  the  close  of  the  Legislature,  John 
Berton,  professional  starter,  and  his  friend 
and  ally,  the  father  of  Francis  King,  had 
returned  to  the  city.  Francis  had  grown, 
so  her  father  thought,  more  handsome  and 
less  agreeable  than  ever.  Her  eyes  were 
more  dissatisfied,  and  she  was,  if  possible, 
less  pliant.  She  and  Ettie  Berton  were 
working  now  in  a  store,  and  Francis  said 
that  she  did  not  like  it  at  all.  The  money 
she  liked.  It  helped  her  to  dress  more  as 
she  wished,  and  then  it  had  always  cut 
Francis  to  the  quick  to  be  compelled  to  ask 
her  father  for  money  whenever  she  needed 
it,  even  for  car  fare. 

She  had  lied  a  good  many  times.  Her 
whole  nature  rebelled  against  lying,  but 
even  this  was  easier  to  her  than  the  status 
of  dependence  and  beggary,  so  she  had  lied 
often  about  the  price  of  shoes,  or  of  a  hat 


prag  10ou,  Sir,  Mbosc  Daugbter?         107 

or  dress,  that  there  might  be  a  trifle  left 
over  as  a  margin  for  her  use  in  other  ways. 
Her  father  was  not  unusually  hard  with  her 
about  money,  only  that  he  demanded  a  strict 
accounting  before  he  gave  it  to  her. 

"What  in  thunder  do  you  want  of 
money?  "  he  would  ask,  more  as  a  matter 
of  habit  than  anything  else.  "How  much 
'11  it  take?  Humph!  Well,  I  guess  you'll 
have  to  have  it,  but  —  "  and  so  the  ungra- 
cious manner  of  giving  angered  and  humili- 
ated her. 

"  Pa,  give  me  ten  cents ;  I  want  it  f er  car 
fare.  Thanks.  Now  fork  over  six  dollars ; 
I  got  to  get  a  dress  after  the  car  gets  me  to 
the  store,"  was  Ettie  Berton's  method.  Her 
father  would  pretend  not  to  have  the  money, 
and  she  would  laugh  and  proceed  to  rifle  his 
pockets.  The  scuffle  would  usually  end  in 
the  girl  getting  more  than  she  asked  for, 
and  was  no  unpleasant  experience  to  her, 
and  it  appeared  to  amuse  her  father  greatly. 
It  was  not,  therefore,  the  same  motive  which 
actuated  the  two  when  they  decided  to  try 
their  fortunes  as  shop  girls.  The  desire  to 
be  with  Francis,  to  be  where  others  were, 


108         pta£  l>ou,  Sir,  TKIlbose  2)augbtcrT 

for  the  sight  and  touch  of  the  pretty  things, 
for  new  faces  and  for  mild  excitement,  were 
moving  causes  with  Ettie  Berton.  The 
money  she  liked,  too ;  but  if  she  could  have 
had  the  place  without  the  money  or  the 
money  without  the  place,  her  choice  would 
have  been  soon  made.  She  would  stay  at 
the  store.  That  she  was  a  general  favorite 
was  a  matter  of  course.  She  would  do 
anything  for  the  other  girls,  and  the  floor- 
walkers and  clerks  found  her  always  obedi- 
ent and  gaily  willing  to  accept  extra  bur- 
dens or  to  change  places.  For  some  time 
past,  however,  she  had  been  on  a  different 
floor  from  the  one  where  Francis  presided 
over  a  trimming  counter,  and  the  girls  saw 
little  of  each  other,  except  on  their  way  to 
and  from  the  store. 

At  last  this  changed  too,  for  Francis  was 
obliged  to  remain  to  see  that  the  stock  of 
her  department  was  properly  put  away.  At 
first  Ettie  waited  for  her,  but  later  on  she 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  going  with  a 
child  nearer  her  own  age,  a  little  cash  girl. 
Ettie  was  barely  fourteen,  and  her  new 
friend   a   year   or   two   younger.      At   last 


lpras  !2ou,  Sir,  TKilbose  2>augbter7  109 

Francis  King  found  that  the  motherless 
child  had  invited  her  new  friends  home  with 
her,  and  had  gone  with  them  to  their  homes. 

As  spring  came  on,  Ettie  went  one  Sun- 
day to  Coney  Island,  and  did  not  tell  Fran- 
cis until  afterward.  She  said  that  she  had 
had  a  lovely  time,  but  she  appeared  rather 
disinclined  to  talk  about  it.  At  the  Guild 
one  Wednesday  evening,  after  the  class 
began  again  in  the  fall,  Francis  King  told 
Gertrude  this,  and  asked  her  advice.  She 
said:  "It's  none  o'  my  business,  and  she 
don't  like  me  much  any  more,  but  I  thought 
maybe  I  had  ought  to  tell  you,  for  —  for  — 
since  I  been  in  the  store,  I've  learnt  a  good 
deal  about  —  about  things;  an'  Ettie  she 
don't  seem  to  learn  much  of  anything." 

"Is  Ettie  still  living  at  her  cousin's?" 
asked  Gertrude. 

"Yes,"  said  Francis,  scornfully,  "but  she 
'bout  as  well  be  livin'  by  herself.  Her 
cousin  's  always  just  gaddin'  'round  tryin' 
t'  get  married.  I  never  did  see  such  an 
awful  fool.  Before  Et's  pa  went  to  the 
Legislature,  we  all  did  think  he  was  goin' 
t'  marry  her,  but  now —  " 


110  pra£  jjou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter? 

w  Legislative  honors  have  turned  his  head, 
have  they?  "  smiled  Gertrude,  intent  on  her 
own  thoughts  in  another  direction.  She  was 
not,  therefore,  prepared  for  the  sudden 
fling  of  temper  in  the  strange  girl  beside 
her. 

"  Yes,  it  has ;  'n  if  it  don't  turn  some  other 
way  before  long,  I'll  break  his  neck  for  him. 
I  ain't  marryin'  a  widower  if  I  do  like 
Ettie." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Gertrude  started  a 
little.  She  looked  at  Francis  quite  steadily 
for  a  moment,  and  then  said:  "Could  you 
and  Ettie  come  to  my  house  and  spend  the 
day  next  Sunday?  I'm  glad  you  told  me  of 
Ettie's  —  of  —  about  the  change  in  her 
manner   toward  you." 

"Don't  let  on  that  I  told  you  anything," 
said  Francis,  as  they  parted. 

Since  they  had  been  in  the  store  they  had 
not  gone  regularly  to  the  weekly  evening 
Guild  meetings,  and  Gertrude  had  seen  less 
of  them.  She  was  surprised,  however,  on 
the  following  Sunday,  to  see  the  strange, 
mysterious  change  in  Ettie.  A  part  of  her 
frank,  open,  childish  manner  was  gone,  and 


Iprag  l^ou,  Sir,  TlDlbosc  ©augbtec?  Ill 

yet  nothing  more  mature  had  taken  its 
place.  There  would  be  flashes  of  her  usual 
manner,  but  long  silences,  quite  foreign 
to  the  child,  would  follow.  At  the  dinner 
table  she  grew  deadly  ill,  and  had  to  be 
taken  up  stairs.  Gertrude  tucked  a  soft 
cover  about  her  on  the  couch  in  her  own 
room,  and  gave  her  smelling  salts  and  a  trifle 
of  wine.  The  child  drank  the  wine  but 
began  to  cry. 

"Oh,  don't  cry,  Ettie,"  said  Gertrude, 
stroking  her  hair  gently.  "  You'll  be  over 
it  in  a  little  while.  I  think  our  dining-room 
is  much  warmer  than  yours,  and  it  was  very 
hot  to-day.  Then  your  trying  to  eat  the 
olives  when  you  don't  like  them,  might  easily 
make  you  sick.  You'll  be  all  right  after  a 
little  I'm  sure.     Don't  cry." 

"That's  the  same  kind  of  wine  I  had 
that  day  at  Coney  Island,"  she  said,  and 
Gertrude  thought  how  irrelevant  the  remark 
was,  and  how  purely  of  physical  origin  were 
the  tears  of  such  a  child. 

""Would  you  like  a  little  more?"  asked 
Gertrude,  smiling. 

Ettie  shivered,  and  closed  her  eyes. 


112  pra$  |?out  Sir,  TJQbose  2>augbter7 

"No;  I  don't  like  it.  I  guess  it  ain't 
polite  to  say  so,  but  —  Oh,  of  course  maybe 
I'd  like  it  if  I  was  well,  but  it  made  me  sick 
that  time,  an'  so  I  don't  like  it  now  when  I 
am  sick."  She  laughed  in  a  childish  way, 
and  then  she  drew  Gertrude's  face  down 
near  her  own.  "  Say,  I'll  tell  you  the  solemn 
truth.  It  made  me  tight  that  day.  He  told 
me  so  afterwards,  n'  I  guess  it  did." 

Here  was  a  revelation,  indeed.  Gertrude 
stroked  the  fluffy  hair,  gently.  She  was 
trying  to  think  of  just  the  right  thing  to 
say.  It  was  growing  dark  in  the  room. 
Ettie  reached  up  again  and  drew  Gertrude's 
face  down. 

"  Say,"  she  whispered,  "  you  won't  be  mad 
at  me  for  that,  will  you?  He  told  me  I 
wasn't  to  blab  to  anybody;  but  it  always 
seems  as  if  you  wouldn't  be  mad  at  me,  and" 
—  she  began  to  weep  again. 

"  Don't  cry,"  said  Gertrude,  again,  gently. 
"  Of  course  I  am  not  angry  with  you.  I  am 
sorry  it  happened,  but — Ettie,  who  is  7te?n 

Ettie  sobbed  on,  and  held  her  arms  close 
about  Gertrude's  neck.  Again  the  older 
girl  said,  with  lips  close  to  the  child's  ear: 


ftras  lou,  Sir,  imbose  Daughter?  113 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  to  tell 
me  who  '  he '  is?  Is  he  so  young  as  to  not 
know  better  than  to  advise  you  that  way, 
dear?" 

"  He's  forty,"  sobbed  Ettie,  "  an'  he's  rich, 
an?  he's  got  a  girl  of  his  own  as  big  as  me. 
I  saw  her  one  day  in  the  store.  He's  the 
cashier." 

Gertrude  shivered,  and  the  child  felt  the 
movement. 

"Don't  you  ever,  ever  tell,"  she  panted, 
"  or  he'll  kill  me  —  and  so  would  pa." 

"Oh,  he  would,  would  he?"  exclaimed 
Francis,  who  had  stolen  silently  into  the 
room  and  had  stood  unobserved  in  the  dark- 
ness. "The  cashier!  the  mean  devil!  I 
always  hated  his  beady  eyes,  and  he  tried 
his  games  on  me!  But  I'll  kill  him  before 
he  shall  go  —  do  you  any  real  harm,  Ettie ! 
I  will!  I  will!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I 
watched  for  a  while  and  then  I  thought  —  I 
thought  he  had  given  it  up.  Oh,  Ettie, 
Ettie !  "  The  tall  form  of  the  girl  seemed  to 
rise  even  higher  in  the  darkness,  and  one 
could  feel  the  fire  of  her  great  eyes.  Her 
hands  were  clenched  and  her  muscles  tense. 


114  fcras  iou,  Sir,  TKtlbose  H>augbter? 

Ettie  was  sobbing  anew,  and  Gertrude,  hold- 
ing her  hand,  was  stroking  the  moist  fore- 
head and  trying  to  quiet  her. 

"  Oh,  Fan!  Oh,  Fan!  I  didn't  want  you 
to  know,"  sobbed  the  child,  with  pauses  be- 
tween her  words.  "  He  said  nobody  needn't 
ever  know  if  I'd  do  just 's  he  told  me.  He 
said  —  but  when  pa  came  home  I  was  so 
scared,  an'  I'm  sick  most  all  the  time,  an'  — 
an',  oh,  if  I  wasn't  so  awful  afraid  to  die  I'd 
wisht  I  was  dead!  " 

"  Dead !  "  gasped  Francis,  grasping  Ettie's 
wrist  and  pulling  her  hand  from  her  face  in 
a  frenzy  of  the  new  light  that  was  dawning 
upon  her  half-dazed  but  intensely  stimulated 
mental  faculties.  She  half  pulled  the  smaller 
girl  to  her  feet. 

"Dead!  Ettie  Berton,  you  tell  me  the 
God's  truth  or  I'll  tear  him  to  pieces  right 
in  the  store.  You  tell  me  the  God's  truth ! 
has  he  —  done  anything  awful  to  you?"  A 
young  tiger  could  not  have  seemed  more 
savage,  and  Ettie  clung  with  her  other  arm 
to  Gertrude. 

"No!  No!  No!"  she  shrieked,  and  strug- 
gled to  free, herself  from  the  clutch  upon 


IPrag  12ou,  Sic,  TlMbose  2>augbtetT  115 

her  wrist.  Then  with  the  pathetic  super- 
stition and  ignorance  of  her  type:  rr Cross 
my  heart !  Hope  I  may  die !  "  she  added,  and 
as  Francis  relaxed  her  grasp  upon  the  wrist, 
Ettie  fell  in  an  unconscious  little  heap  upon 
the  floor. 

Francis  was  upon  her  knees  beside  her  in 
an  instant,  and  Gertrude  was  about  to  ring 
for  a  light  and  for  her  mother  when  Francis 
moaned:  "Oh,  send  for  a  doctor,  quick. 
Send  for  a  doctor !  She  was  lying  and  she 
crossed  her  heart.  She  will  die !  She  will 
die!" 


116  prag  12ou,  sir,  Wbose  ©aufibter? 


X. 


But  Ettie  Berton  did  not  die.  Perhaps  it 
would  have  been  quite  as  well  for  her  if  she 
had  died  before  the  impotent  and  frantic 
rage  of  her  father  had  still  further  darkened 
the  pathetically  appealing,  love-hungry  little 
heart,  whose  every  beat  had  been  a  throb- 
bing, eager  desire  to  be  liked,  to  please,  to 
acquiesce ;  to  the  end  that  she  should  escape 
blame,  that  she  might  sail  on  the  smooth 
and  pleasant  sea  of  general  praise  and 
approval. 

Alas,  the  temperament  which  had  brought 
her  the  dangerous  stimulus  of  praise,  for 
self-effacement,  had  joined  hands  with  op- 
portunity to  wreck  the  child's  life  —  and  no 
one  was  more  bitter  in  his  denunciation  than 
her  father's  friend  and  her  aforetime  ad- 
mirer— Representative  King.  "If  she  was 
a  daughter  o'  mine  I'd  kill  her,"  he  repeated 
to  his  own  household  day  after  day.     "  She 


f5ra£  J?oti,  Six,  XDlboee  ©auabter?  117 

sh'd  never  darken  my  door  agin.  That's 
mighty  certain.  It  made  me  mad  the  other 
day  to  hear  Berton  talk  about  takin'  her 
back  home.  The  old  fool!  What  does  he 
want  of  her?  An'  what  kind  of  an  ex- 
ample 's  that  I'd  like  t'  know  t'  set  t'  decent 
girls?  I  told  him  right  then  an'  there  if  he 
let  his  soft  heart  do  him  that  a'way  I  was 
done  with  him  for  good  an'  all,  n'  if  I  ketch 
you  a  goin'  up  there  t'  see  her  agin,  you  can 
just  stay  away  from  here,  that's  all!"  This 
last  had  been  to  Francis,  and  Francis  had 
shut  her  teeth  together  very  hard,  and  the 
glitter  in  her  eyes  might  have  indicated  to  a 
wiser  man  that  it  was  not  chiefly  because  of 
his  presence  there  that  this  daughter  cared 
to  return  to  her  home  after  her  clandestine 
visits  to  Ettie  Berton.  A  wiser  man,  too, 
might  have  guessed  that  the  prohibition 
would  not  prohibit,  and  that  poor  little  Ettie 
Berton  would  not  be  deserted  by  her  loyal 
friend  because  of  his  displeasure. 

"  I  have  told  her  that  she  may  live  with 
us  by  and  by,"  said  Gertrude  to  Seldon 
Avery  one  afternoon;  "but  that  is  no  solu- 
tion of  the  problem.     And  besides,  it  is  her 


118  lPrag  J^ou,  Sir,  Whose  Baugbter? 

father's  duty  to  care  for  her  and  to  do  it 
without  hurting  the  child's  feelings,  too. 
Can't  you  go  to  him  and  have  a  talk  with 
him?  You  say  he  seems  a  kindhearted, 
well-meaning,  easily-led  man.  Beside,  he 
has  no  right  to  blame  her.  He  has  done 
more  than  any  one  else  in  this  state  to  make 
the  path  of  the  cashier  easy  and  smooth.  If 
it  were  not  for  poor  little  Ettie  I  should  be 
heartily  glad  of  it  all  —  of  the  lesson  for 
him.  Can't  you  go  to  him  and  to  that  Mr. 
King  and  make  them  see  the  infamy  of  their 
work,  and  force  them  to  undo  it?  Can't 
you?     Is  there  no  way?  " 

Avery  had  gone.  He  argued  in  vain. 
"  Why  do  you  blame  the  cashier,"  he  had  said 
to  Berton.  "He  has  committed  no  legal 
offence.  Our  laws  say  he  has  done  no 
wrong.  Then  why  blame  him?  Why  blame 
Ettie?  She  is  a  mere  yielding,  impulsive 
child,  and,  surely,  if  he  has  done  no  wrong 
she  has  not.     If — " 

" [Now  look  a-here,  Mr.  Avery,"  said  John 
Berton,  hotly,  "  I  know  what  you're  a-hittin' 
at  an'  you  can  jest  save  your  breath.  I 
didn't  help  pass  that  law  t'  apply  to  my  girl, 


prag  !?ou,  Sir,  TIClbose  Daugbter?  119 

n'  you  know  it  damned  well.  I  ain't  in  no 
mood  just  now  t'  have  you  throw  it  up  to 
me  that  she  was  about  the  first  one  it 
ketched,  neather.  How  was  I  a-goin'  to 
know  that?  That  there  bill  wasn't  intended 
t'  apply  t'  my  girl,  I  tell  you.  An'  then  she 
hadn't  ought  to  a  said  she  went  with  him 
willin'ly,  either.  If  she  hadn't  a  said  that 
we  could  a  peppered  him,  but  as  it  is  he's 
all  right,  an — " 

"  That  is  what  the  law  contemplates,  isn't 
it?  —  for  other  girls,  of  course,  not  for 
yours,"  began  Avery,  whose  natural  im- 
pulses of  kindness  and  generosity  he  was 
holding  back. 

"  Now  you  hold  on !  ':I  exclaimed  Berton, 
feebly  groping  about  for  a  reply.  :You 
know  I  never  got  up  that  bill.  You  know 
mighty  well  the  man  that  got  it  up  an'  come 
there  an'  lobbied  for  it,  was  one  o'  your  own 
kind  —  a  silk  stocking. 

"You  know  I  only  started  it  'n'  sort  ©'fath- 
ered it  for  Mm.  I  ain't  no  more  to  blame 
than  the  others.  Go  'n  talk  t'  them.  I've 
had  my  dose.  Go  'n  talk  t'  King.  He  says 
yet  that  it's  a  mighty  good  bill — but  I  ain't 


120  B>raE  J£ou,  Sir,  TClbose  Daugbter? 

so  damned  certain  as  I  was.  It  don't  look 
's  reasonable  t'  me  's  it  did  last  session." 

Avery  left  him,  in  the  hope  that  a  little 
later  on  he  would  conclude  that  his  present 
attitude  toward  his  daughter  might  under- 
go like  modification,  with  advantage  to  all 
concerned.  It  was  early  in  the  evening,  and 
Avery  concluded  to  step  into  a  working- 
man's  club  on  his  way  to  his  lodgings.  He 
had  no  sooner  entered  the  door,  than  some- 
one recognized  him  as  the  candidate  of  a 
year  ago.  There  was  an  immediate  demand 
that  he  give  them  a  speech.  He  had  had  no 
thought  of  speaking,  but  the  opening  tempted 
him,  and  the  hand  clapping  was  urgent. 
The  chairman  introduced  him  as  "the  only 
kid-glove-  member  in  the  last  Legislature 
who  didn't  sell  his  soul,  to  monopoly,  and 
put  a  mortgage  on  his  heavenly  home  at  the 
behest  of  "Wall  Street." 

The  applause  which  met  this  sally  was 
long  sustained,  and  the  laughter,  while 
hearty,  was  not  altogether  pleasant  of  tone. 
Avery  stood  until  there  was  silence.  Then 
he  began  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"Mr.    Chairman    and    gentlemen."      He 


prag  H?ou,  Sir,  Timbose  Daugbtcr?  121 

paused;  and  looked  over  the  room  again. 
"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  accustomed  to 
face  men  only.  Mr.  Chairman,  ladies  and 
gentlemen."  There  was  a  ripple  of  laughter 
over  the  room.  "Let  me  say  how  glad  I  am 
to  make  that  amendment,  and  how  glad  I 
shall  be,  for  one,  when  I  am  able  to  make  it 
in  the  body  to  which  I  have  the  honor  to 
belong — the  Legislature."  Some  one  said: 
"ah,  there,"  but  he  did  not  pause.  "You 
labor  men  have  taken  the  right  view  of  it  in 
this  club.  There  is  not  a  question,  not  one, 
in  all  the  domain  of  labor  or  legislation  which 
does  not  strike  at  woman's  welfare  as  vitally 
as  it  does  at  man's;  not  one."  There  was 
feeble  applause.  :<:But  I  will  go  further.  I 
will  say,  there  is  not  only  not  an  'economic 
question  which  is  not  as  vital  to  her,  but  it 
is  far  more  vital  than  it  is  to  man.  The  very 
fact  of  her  present  legal  status  rests  upon 
the  other  awful  fact  of  her  absolute  financial 
dependence  upon  men."  Someone  laughed, 
and  Avery  fired  up.  "This  one  fact  has 
made  sex  maniacs  of  men,  and  peopled  this 
world  with  criminals,  lunatics,  and  liars! 
This  one  fact!     This  one  fact!" 


122        IPrag  H?ou,  Sir,  IKIibose  Daughter? 

His  intensity  had  at  last  forced  silence, 
and  quieted  those  members  who  were  at  first 
inclined  to  take  as  a  gallant  joke  his  opening 
remarks.  "Let  me  take  a  text,  for  what  I 
want  to  say  to  yon  on  the  economic  ques- 
tion, from  the  Bible. 

"Oh,   give   us   a   rest!" 

"Suffer    little  children!" 

"Remember  the  Sabbath  day!"  and  like 
derisive  calls,  mingled  with  a  laugh  and 
distinct  hisses.  The  gavel  beat  in  vain; 
Avery  waited.  At  last  there  was  silence, 
and  he  said:  "I  was  not  joking.  The 
fact  that  you  all  know  me  as  a  free- 
thinker misled  you;  but  although  I  did  say 
that  I  wished  to  take  as  a  sort  of  text  a 
passage  from  the  Bible,  I  was  in  earnest. 
This  is  the  text:  *The  rich  man's  wealth  is 
his  strong  city;  the  destruction  of  the  poor 
is  their  poverty.'  Again  there  was  a  laugh, 
with  a  different  ring  to  it,  and  clapping  of 
hands. 

"I  think  that  I  may  assume,"  he  went  on, 
"  that  no  audience  before  which  I  am  likely  to 
appear,  will  suspect  me  of  accepting  the 
Bible  as  altogether  admirable.     Some  of  the 


IPras  U>ou,  Sir,  Idbose  ©augbter?  123 

prophets  and  holy  men  of  old,  as  I  read  of 
their  doings  in  the  scriptures,  always  impress 
me  as  having  been  long  overdue  at  the  peni- 
tentiary." 

There  was  laughter  and  applause  at  this 
sally,  and  the  intangible  something  which 
emanates  from  an  audience  which  tells  a 
speaker  that  he  now  has  a  mental  grasp  up- 
on his  hearers,  made  itself  felt.  The  slight 
air  of  resentment  which  arose  when  he  had 
said  that  he  should  refer  for  his  authority 
to  the  Bible  subsided,  and  he  went  on. 

"But  notwithstanding  these  facts  and 
opinions,  one  sometimes  finds  in  the  Bible 
things  that  are  true.  Sometimes  they  are  not 
only  true,  but  they  are  also  good.  Again 
they  are  good  in  fact,  in  sentiment,  and  in 
diction.  ]N^ow  when  this  sort  of  conjunction 
occurs,  I  am  strongly  moved  to  drop  for  the 
time  such  differences  as  I  may  have  with 
other  portions  and  sentiments,  and  give  due 
credit  where  credit  is  due. 

Therefore,  when  I  find  in  the  tenth  chapter 
of  Proverbs  this :  "  The  rich  man's  wealth  is 
his  strong  city;  the  destruction  of  the  poor 
is  their  poverty,"  I   shake  hands  with  the 


124         ftras  l>ou,  Sir,  Wbose  2>augbter? 

author,  and  travel  with  him  for  this  trip  at 
least.  The  prophet  does  not  say  that  their 
destruction  is  ignorance,  or  vice,  or  sin,  or 
any  of  the  ordinary  blossoms  of  poverty 
which  it  is  the  fashion  to  refer  to  as  its  root. 
He  tells  us  the  truth — the  destruction  of 
the  poor  is  their  poverty. 

And  who  are  the  poor?  Are  they  not 
those  who,  in  spite  of  their  labor,  their  worth, 
and  their  value  to  the  state  as  good  citizens 
are  still  dependent  upon  the  good- will — the 
charity,  I  had  almost  said  —  of  someone  else 
who  has  power  over  the  very  food  they  have 
earned  a  hundred  times  over,  and  the  miser- 
able rags  they  are  allowed  to  wear  instead  of 
the  broadcloth  they  have  earned?  Are  they 
not  those  who,  because  of  economic  condi- 
tions, are  suppliants  where  they  should  be 
sovereign  citizens,  dependents  where  they 
should  be  free  and  independent  and  self- 
respecting  persons  ? " 

"  Right   you   are ! " 

"  Drive  it  home ! "  came  with  the  applause 
from  the  audience. 

"Are  they  not  those  who  must  obey  op- 
pressive laws  made  by  those  who  legislate 


pras  H>ou,  Sir,  TKlbosc  Daugbter?  125 

against  the  helpless  and  in  favor  of  the 
powerful?  Are  they  not  those  whose  voices 
are  silenced  by  subjection,  whose  wishes  and 
needs  are  trampled  beneath  the  feet  of  the 
controlling  class?" 

The  applause  was  ready  now  and  instant. 
Avery  paused.  There  was  silence.  "  And 
who  are  these?"  he  asked,  and  paused 
again. 

"What  class  of  people  more  than  any 
other  —  more  than  all  others  —  fits  and  fills 
each  and  every  one  of  these  queries?" 

"  Laboring  men ! ,:  shouted  several.  "All 
of  us ! " 

"  No,"  said  Avery,  "  you  are  wrong.  To 
all  of  you  —  to  all  so-called  laboring  men 
they  do  apply;  but  more  than  to  these,  in 
more  insidious  ways,  do  they  apply  to 
laboring  women.  To  all  women,  in  fact ;  for 
no  matter  how  poor  a  man  is,  his  wife  and 
daughters  are  poorer;  no  matter  how  much 
of  a  dependent  he  is,  the  woman  is  more  so, 
for  she  is  the  dependent  of  a  dependent, 
the  serf  of  a  slave,  the  chattel  of  a  chat- 
tel !  The  suppliant,  not  only  for  work  and 
wage,  but  the    suppliant    at   the   hands   of 


126  IPcag  |?ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daugbter? 

sex  power  for  equality  with  even  the  man 
who  is  under  the  feet  and  the  tyranny  of 
wealth.  They  share  together  that  tyranny 
and  poverty,  but  he  thrusts  upon  her  alone 
the  added  outrage  of  sex  subjugation  and 
legal  disability."  He  paused,  and  held  up 
his  hand.  Then  he  said,  slowly,  making 
each  word  stand  alone :  — 

"And  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  with  my 
one  term's  experience  in  the  Legislature  and 
what  it  has  taught  me  —  I  tell  you  that  there 
is  no  outrage  which  wealth  and  power  can 
commit  upon  man  that  it  cannot  and  does 
not  commit  doubly  upon  woman !  There  is 
no  cruelty  upon  all  this  cruel  earth  half  so 
terrible  as  the  tyranny  of  sex !  And  again,  I 
tell  you  that  to  woman  every  man  is  a  capi- 
talist in  wealth  and  in  power,  and  I  reiterate : 
—  the  destruction  of  the  poor  is  their  pov- 
erty. It  has  been  doubly  woman's  destruc- 
tion. Her  absolute  financial  dependence 
upon  men  has  given  him  the  power  and — 
alas,  that  I  should  be  compelled  to  say  it !  — 
the  will,  to  deny  her  all  that  is  best  and 
loftiest  in  life,  and  even  to  crush  out  of  her 
the  love  of  liberty  and  the  dignity  of  char- 


pras  UK>ut  Sir,  TliClbose  5>au0bter7  127 

acter  which  cares  for  the  better  things. 
Look  at  her  education!  Look  at  the  dis- 
graceful ?  annexes  '  and  side  shifts  which  are 
made  to  prevent  our  sisters  from  acquiring 
even  the  same,  or  as  good,  an  education  as  we 
claim  for  ourselves.  Look  — "  He  paused 
and  lowered  his  voice.  "  Look  at  the  awful, 
the  horrible,  the  beastly  laws  we  pass  for 
women,  while  we  carefully  keep  them  in  a 
position  where  they  cannot  legislate  for  them- 
selves. Do  you  know  there  is  no  law  in  any 
state  —  and  no  legislature  would  dare  try  to 
pass  one — which  would  bind  a  ten-year-old 
boy  to  any  contract  which  he  might  have  been 
led,  driven,  or  coaxed  into,  or  have  volun- 
tarily made,  if  that  contract  should  hence- 
forth deprive  him  of  all  that  gives  to  him 
the  comforts,  joys,  or  decencies  of  life !  All 
men  hold  that  such  a  boy  is  not  old  enough 
to  make  such  a  contract.  That  any  one 
older  than  he,  who  leads  him  into  a  crime 
or  misdemeanor,  or  the  transfer  of  property, 
or  his  personal  rights  and  liberty,  is  guilty  of 
legal  offence.  The  boy  is  without  blame, 
and  his  contract  is  absolutely  void  —  illegal. 
But  in  more  than  one  state  we  hold  that 


128  ftras  !?ou,  Sir,  Wboae  Daughter  1 

a  little  girl. of  ten  may  make  the  most  fatal 
contract  ever  made  by  or  for  woman,  and 
that  she  is  old  enough  to  be  held  legally 
responsible  for  her  act  and  for  her  judg- 
ment. The  one  who  leads  her  into  it, 
though  he  be  forty,  fifty,  or  sixty  years  old, 
is  guiltless  before  the  law.  I  tell  you, 
gentlemen,  there  is  no  crime  possible  to  hu- 
manity that  is  as  black  as  that  infamous  law, 
sought  to  be  re-enacted  by  our  own  state  at 
this  very  time,  and  which  has  already  passed 
one  house ! "  He  explained,  as  delicately  as 
he  could,  the  full  scope  and  meaning  of  the 
bill.  Surprise,  consternation,  swept  over  the 
room.  Men,  a  few  of  whom  had  heard  of 
the  bill  before,  but  had  given  it  scant  atten- 
tion, saw  a  horror  and  disgust  in  the  eyes  of 
the  women  which  aroused  for  the  first  time 
in  their  minds,  a  flickering  sense  of  the 
enormity  of  such  a  measure.  No  one  pres- 
ent was  willing  that  any  woman  should  be- 
lieve him  guilty  of  approving  such  legisla- 
tion, and  yet  Avery  impressed  anew  upon 
them  that  the  bill  had  passed  one  house 
with  a  good  majority.  On  his  way  out  of 
the   room,   a   tall  girl  stepped   to  his  side. 


prag  13ou,  Sir,  IRflbosc  2>auflbter?  129 

For  the  moment  he  had  not  recognized  her. 
It  was  Francis  King.  She  looked  straight 
at  him. 

"Did  my  father  vote  for  that  bill?"  she 
asked,  without  a  prelude  of  greeting.  Avery 
hesitated. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you,  Miss  King? "  he  asked,  "I 
did  not  see  you  before.  Do  you  come 
here  often?" 

"  Not  very,"  she  said,  still  looking  at  him, 
and  with  fire  gathering  in  her  eyes.  w  Did 
my  father  vote  for  that  bill?"  she  repeated. 

"Ah — I  —  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  began 
Avery,  but  she  put  out  her  hand  and  caught 
firm  hold  of  his  arm. 

"Did  my  father  vote  for  that  bill?"  she 
insisted,  and  Avery  said :  — 

"  Yes,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  he  did,  Miss  King; 
but  —  so  many  did,  you  know.  The  fact 
is—" 

Her  fingers  grasped  his  arm  like  a  vice, 
and  her  lips  were  drawn.  tf  Did  Ettie's  pa?" 
she  demanded. 

Avery  saw  the  drift  of  her  thought. 

"  God  forgive  him !  yes, "  he  said,  and  his 
own  eyes  grew  troubled  and  sympathetic. 


130  fl>rav>  j)ou,  Sir,  mbose  ©augbter? 

:?  God  may  forgive  him  if  he's  a  mind  to," 
exclaimed  Francis,  "  but  I  don't  want  no 
such  God  around  me,  if  he  does.  Any  God 
that  wants  to  forgive  men  for  such  work  as 
that  ain't  fit  to  associate  with  no  other  kind 
of  folks  hut  such  men ;  but  I  don't  mean  to 
allow  a  good  little  girl  like  Ettie  to  live  in 
the  same  house  with  a  beast  if  I  know  it. 
She  shan't  go  home  again  now,  not  if  her  pa 
begs  on  his  knees.  He  ain't  fit  to  wipe  her 
shoes.  'N  my  pa!':  she  exclaimed,  scorn- 
fully. "My  pa  talkin'  about  Ettie  Jbeing 
bad,  and  settin'  bad  examples  for  decent 
girls !  Him  a  talkin' !  Him  livin'  in  the  same 
house  with  my  little  sister  'n  me!  Him!" 
The  girl  wTas  wrought  to  a  frenzy  of  scorn, 
and  contempt,  and  anger.  They  had  passed 
out  with  the  rest  into  the-  street. 

"Shall  I  walk  home  with  you?"  asked 
Avery.     "Are  you  alone?" 

"Yes,  I'm  alone,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
dry  sob.  v  I'm  alone,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  home 
any  more.  Not  while  he  lives  there.  It's 
no  decent  place  for  a  girl  —  living  in  the 
house  with  a  man  like  that.  I  ain't  goin' 
home.     I'm  goin'  to — "     It  rushed  over  her 


©rag  l^oii,  Sir,  Taabose  2>augbter7  131 

brain  that  she  had  no  other  place  to  go.  She 
held  her  purse  in  her  hand;  it  had  only  two 
dollars  and  a  few  cents  in  it.  She  had 
bought  her  new  dress  with  the  rest.  Her 
step  faltered,  but  her  eyes  were  as  fiery  and 
as  hard  as  ever. 

"You'd  better  go  home,"  said  Avery, 
softly.  "  It  will  only  be  the  harder  for  you, 
if  you  don't.     I'm  sorry — " 

She  turned  on  him  like  a  tigress.  They 
were  in  Union  Square  now.  "Even  you 
think  it  is  all  right  for  good  girls  to  be  under 
the  control  and  live  with  men  like  that! 
Even  you  think  I  ought  to  go  home,  an'  let 
him  boss  me  an'  make  rules  fer  me,  an'  me 
pretend  to  like  it  an  believe  as  he  does,  an' 
look  up  to  him,  an'  think  his  way's  right 
an'  best!     Even  you!" 

"  No,  no,"  said  Avery,  softly.  c  You  must 
be  fair,  Miss  King.  I  don't  think  it's  right; 
but — but — I  said  it  was  best  just  now,  for — 
what  else  can  you  do?"  The  girl  was 
facing  him  as  they  stood  near  the  fountain 
in  the  middle  of  the  square. 

"  That's  just  what  I  was  meaning  to  show 
to-night  when  I  said  what  I  did  to  the  club, 


132  U>ras  l>ou,  Sir,  TKXbose  ©ausbter? 

of  the  financial  dependence  of  women;  it 
is  their  destruction;  it  destroys  their  self- 
respect;  it  forces  them  to  accept  a  moral 
companionship  which  they'd  scorn  if  they 
dared;  it  forces  them  to  seem  to  condone 
and  uphold  such  things  themselves;  it 
forces  them  to  be  the  companions  and  subor- 
dinates of  degraded  moral  natures,  that  hold 
wives  and  daughters  to  a  code  which  they 
will  not  apply  to  themselves,  and  which  they 
seek  to  make  void  for  other  wives  and 
daughters ;  it  — " 

r  You  told  me  to  go  home,"  she  said,  stub- 
bornly. "I'm  not  goin'!  I  make  money 
enough  to  live  on.  I  always  spent  it  on — on 
things  to  wear;  but — but  I  can  live  on  it,  an' 
I'm  goin'  to.  I  ain't  goin'  to  live  in  the 
house  with  no  such  a  man.  He  ain't  fit  to 
live  with.  I  won't  tell  ma  an'  the  girls  — 
yet;  not  till— " 

She  paused,  and  peered  toward  the  clock 
in  the  face  of  the  great  stone  building  across 
the  street.  w  Do  you  think  it's  too  late  fer 
me  t'talk  a  minute  with  Miss  Gertrude?" 
she  asked,  with  her  direct  gaze,  again. 

;?  She'd  let  me   stay  there   one   night,  I 


pra^  Jjjou,  Sir,  TKllbose  Daugbter?  133 

guess,  n'  she'd  tell  me  —  I  c'd  talk  to  her 
some." 

"  If  you  won't  go  home,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"I  suppose  it  would  be  best  for  you  to  go 
there,  but — it  is  rather  late.  Go  home  for 
to-night,  Miss  Francis  !  I  wish  you  would. 
Think  it  over  to-night,  please.  Let  me  take 
you  home  to-night.  Go  to  Miss  Gertrude 
to-morrow,  and  talk  it  over."  His  tone  had 
grown  gentle  and  more  tender  than  he  knew. 
He  took  the  hand  she  had  placed  on  his  arm 
in  his  own,  and  tried  to  turn  toward  her 
street.  She  held  stubbornly  back.  "For 
my  sake,  to  please  me  —  because  I  think  it 
is  best  —  won't  you  go  home  to-night?" 
She  looked  at  him  again,  and  a  haze  came 
in  her  eyes.  She  did  not  trust  herself  to 
speak,  but  she  turned  toward  her  own  street, 
and  they  walked  silently  down  the  square. 
His  hand  still  held  her  own  as  it  lay  on 
his  arm. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  pressed  her 
fingers  more  firmly  for  an  instant  and  then 
released  them.  He  had  taken  his  glove  off 
in  the  hall  and  had  not  replaced  it.  When 
they  reached  the  door  of  her  father's  house, 


134  IPras  ]l?ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter? 

she  suddenly  grasped  his  ungloved  hand  and 
kissed  it,  and  ran  sobbing  up  the  steps  and 
into  the  house  without  a  word. 

"Poor  girl,"  thought  Avery,  "she  is  not 
herself  to-night.  She  has  never  respected 
nor  loved  her  father  much,  but  this  was  a 
phase  of  his  nature  she  had  not  suspected 
before.  Poor  child!  I  hope  Gertrude — " 
and  in  the  selfishness  of  the  love  he  bore  for 
Gertrude,  he  allowed  his  thoughts  to  wander, 
and  it  did  not  enter  his  mind  to  place  any- 
thing deeper  than  a  mere  emotional  signifi- 
cance upon  the  conduct  of  the  intense,  tall, 
dark-eyed  girl  who  had  just  left  him. 

He  did  not  dream  that  at  that  moment  she 
lay  face  down  on  her  bed  sobbing  as  if  her 
heart  would  break,  and  yet,  that  a  strange 
little  flutter  of  happiness  touched  her  heart 
as  she  held  her  gloved  hand  against  her 
flushed  cheek  or  kissed  it  in  the  darkness. 
It  was  the  hand  Avery  had  held  so  long 
within  his  own,  as  it  lay  upon  his  arm.  At 
last  the  girl  drew  the  glove  off,  and  going 
to  her  drawer,  took  out  her  finest  hand- 
kerchief and  lay  the  glove  within,  wrapping 
it  softly  and  carefully.     She  was  breathing 


fl>ra£  l?out  Sir,  Tl&bose  Daugbtec?  135 

hard,  and  her  face  was  set  and  pained. 
At  two  o'clock  she  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
under  her  tear-stained  cheek  there  was  a 
glove  folded  in  a  bit  of  soft  cambric. 
Poor  Francis  King!  The  world  is  a  sorry 
place  for  such  as  you,  and  even  those  who 
would  be  your  best  friends  often  deal  the 
deadliest  wounds.  Poor  Francis  King! 
Has  life  nothing  to  offer  you  but  a  worn 
glove  and  a  tear-stained  bit  of  cambric? 
Is  it  true?  Need  it  be  true?  Is  there  no 
better  way?  Have  we  built  your  house 
with  but  one  door,  and  with  no  window? 
Smile  at  the  fancies  of  your  sleep,  child; 
to-morrow  will  bring  memory,  reality, 
and  tears.  You  are  a  woman  now.  Yes- 
terday you  were  but  an  unformed,  strong- 
willed  girl.  Poor  Francis  King!  sleep  late 
to-morrow,  and  dream  happily  if  you  can. 
Poor  Francis  King,  to-morrow  is  very  near ! 


136  Jprag  l£ou,  Sir,  Mboee  Daugbter? 


XI. 

"  Gertrude !  "  called  out  her  mother  to  the 
girl,  as  she  passed  the  library  door.  "  Ger- 
trude !  come  in,  your  father  and  I  wish  to 
talk  with  you." 

"Committee meeting?"  laughed  Gertrude, 
as  she  took  a  seat  beside  her  father.  It  had 
grown  to  be  rather  a  joke  in  the  family  to 
speak  of  Mr.  Avery's  calls  as  committee 
meetings,  and  Mr.  Foster  had  tried  vainly  to 
tease  his  daughter  about  it. 

"In  my  time,"  he  would  say,  "we  did  not 
go  a  courting  to  get  advice.  We  went  for 
kisses.  I  never  discussed  any  more  pro- 
found topic  with  my  sweetheart  than  love 
—  and  perhaps  poetry  and  music.  Some- 
times, as  I  sit  and  listen  to  you  two,  I  can't 
half  believe  that  you  are  lovers.  It's  so  per- 
fectly absurd.  You  talk  about  everything 
on  earth.  It's  a  deal  more  like — why  I 
should  have  looked  upon  that  sort  of  thing 


lPrag  lou,  Sir,  TlMbose  Daugbter?  137 

as  a  species  of  committee   meeting,  in  my 
day." 

Gertrude  had  laughed  and  said  something 
about  thinking  that  love  ought  to  enter  into 
and  run  through  all  the  interests  of  life,  and 
not  be  held  merely  as  a  thing  apart.  All 
women  had  a  life  to  live.  All  would  not 
have  the  love.  So  the  first  problem  was  one 
of  life  and  its  work.  The  love  was  only  a 
phase  of  this.  But  her  father  had  gone  on 
laughing  at  her  about  her  queer  love-making. 

"Committee  meeting?"  asked  she,  again, 
as  she  glanced  at  her  father,  smiling  dryly. 
Her  mother  answered  first. 

w  Yes — no — partly.  Your  father  wanted 
to  speak  to  you  about — he  thinks  you  should 
not  be  seen  with,  or  have  those  girls —  iTou 
tell  her  yourself,  dear,"  she  said,  appealing 
to  her  husband.  Mr.  Foster  was  fidgeting 
about  in  his  chair;  he  had  not  felt  comfort- 
able before.  He  was  less  so  now,  for  Ger- 
trude had  turned  her  face  full  upon  him,  and 
her  hand  was  on  his  sleeve. 

"Well,  there's  nothing  to  tell,  Gertrude," 
he  said.  "I  guess  you  can  understand  it 
without  a  scene.     I   simply   don't  want  to 


138         1Pra£  l?ou,  Sir,  TKflbose  Daughter? 

see  those  girls — that  King  girl  and  her 
friend — about  here  any  more.  It  won't  do. 
It  simply  won't  do  at  all.  You'll  be  talked 
about.  Of  course,  I  know  it  is  all  very  kind 
of  you,  and  all  that,  and  that  you  don't  mean 
any  harm ;  but  men  always  have  drawn,  and 
they  always  will  draw,  unpleasant  conclu- 
sions. They  may  sympathize  with  that  sort 
of  girls,  but  they  simply  won't  stand  having 
their  own  women  folks  associate  with  them. 
The  test  of  the  respectability  of  a  woman, 
is  whether  a  man  of  position  will  marry  her 
or  not.  A  man's  respectable  if  he's  out  of 
jail.  A  woman  if  she  is  marriageable  or 
married.  Now,  unfortunately,  that  little 
Berton  girl  is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 
and  its  going  to  make  talk  if  you  are  seen 
with  her  again.  She  must  stay  away  from 
here,  too." 

There  had  come  a  most  unusual  tone  of 
protest  into  his  voice  as  he  went  on,  but  he 
had  looked  steadily  at  a  carved  paper  knife, 
which  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  with  which 
he  cut  imaginary  leaves  upon  the  table. 
There  was  a  painful  silence.  Gertrude 
thought  she  did  not  remember  having  ever 


fi>ra£  H?ou,  Sir,  IKlbose  ©augbter?  139 

before  heard  her  father  speak  so  sharply. 
She  glanced  at  her  mother,  but  Katherine 
Foster  had  evidently  made  up  her  mind  to 
leave  this  matter  entirely  in  the  hands  of 
her  husband. 

"Do  you  mean,  papa,  that  you  wish  me  to 
tell  that  child,  Ettie  Berton,  not  to  come 
here  any  more,  and  that  I  must  not  befriend 
her?"  asked  Gertrude,  in  an  unsteady  voice. 

"Befriend  her  all  you've  a  mind  to," 
responded  her  father,  heartily.  "  Certainly. 
Of  course.  But  don't  have  her  come  here, 
and  don't  you  be  seen  with  her,  nor  the  other 
one  again.  You  can  send  James  or  Susan 
— better  not  send  Susan  though — send 
James  with  money  or  anything  you  want  to 
give  her.  Your  mother  tells  me  you  are 
paying  the  Berton  girl's  board.  That's  all 
right  if  you  want  to,  but — your  mother  has 
told  me  the  whole  outrageous  story,  and  that 
cashier  ought  to  be  shot,  but — " 

"  But  instead  of  helping  make  the  public 
opinion  which  would  make  him  less,  and 
Ettie  more,  respectable,  you  ask  me  to  help 
along  the  present  infamous  order  of  things ! 
Oh,  papa!     don't  ask  that  of  me!     I  have 


140         ipras  Jijou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter! 

never  willingly  done  anything  in  my  life  that 
I  knew  yon  disapproved.  Don't  ask  me  to 
help  crash  that  child  now,  for  I  cannot.  I 
cannot  desert  her  now.  Don't  ask  that  of 
me,  papa.  Why  do  men — even  you  good 
men — make  it  so  hard,  so  almost  impossible 
for  women  to  be  kind  to  each  other?  What 
has  Ettie  done  that  such  as  we  should  hold 
her  to  account.  She  is  a  mere  child.  Four- 
teen years  old  in  fact,  but  not  over  ten  in 
feeling  or  judgment.  She  has  been  deceived 
by  one  who  fully  understood.  She  did  not. 
And  yet  even  you  ask  me  to  hold  her  respon- 
sible !  Oh,  papa,  don't ! "  She  slipj:>ed  onto 
her  father's  knee  and  took  his  face  in  her 
hands  and  kissed  his  forehead.  She  had 
never  in  her  life  stood  against  her  father  or 
seemed  to  criticise  him  before.  It  hurt  her 
and  it  vexed  him.  A  little  frown  came  on 
his  face. 

w  Katherine,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  wife, 
"I  wish  you'd  make  Gertrude  understand 
this  thing  rationally.  You  always  have." 
Mrs.  Foster  glanced  at  her  daughter  and 
then  at  her  husband.     She  smiled. 

"I  always  have,  what  dear?"  she  asked. 


fl>ra£  U?ou,  Sir,  TMbosc  Daugbter?  141 

w  Understood  these  things  as  I  do — as 
everyone  does,"  said  her  husband.  "You 
never  took  these  freaks  that  Gertrude  is 
growing  into,  and — " 

The  daughter  winced  and  sat  far  back  on 
her  father's  knee.  Her  mother  did  not  miss 
the  action.  She  smiled  at  the  girl,  but  her 
voice  was  steady,  and  less  light  than  usual. 

"No,  I  never  took  freaks,  as  you  say,  but 
what  I  thought  of  things,  or  how  I  may  or 
may  not  have  understood  them,  dear,  no  one 
ever  inquired,  no  one  ever  cared  to  know. 
That  I  acted  like  other  people,  and  acquiesced 
in  established  opinions,  went  without  saying. 
That  was  expected  of  me.  That  I  did. 
Gertrude  belongs  to  another  generation, 
dear.  She  cannot  be  so  colorless  as  we 
women  of  my  time  —  " 

Her  husband  laughed. 

"  Colorless,  is  good,  by  Jove !  You  color- 
less indeed !  "  He  looked  admiringly  at  his 
wife.  "  "Why,  Katherine,  you  have  more  col- 
or and  more  sense  now  than  any  half  dozen 
girls  of  this  generation.    Colorless  indeed! " 

Mrs.  Foster  smiled.  "  Don't  you  think  my 
cheerful,  easy  reflection  of  your  own  shades 


142  Peas  Jgou,  Sir,  TOlbose  Baugbter? 

of  thought  or  mind  have  always  passed  cur- 
rent as  my  own?  Sometimes  I  fancy  that  is 
true,  and  that  —  it  is  easier  and  —  pleasanter 
all  around.  But  —  "  she  paused.  "  It  was 
not  my  color,  my  thought,  my  opinions,  my- 
self. It  was  an  echo,  dear;  a  pleasant  echo 
of  yourself  which  has  so  charmed  you.  It 
was  not  I." 

Gertrude  felt  uneasy,  and  as  if  she  were 
lifting  a  curtain  which  had  been  long  drawn. 
Her  father  turned  his  face  towards  her  and 
then  toward  her  mother. 

"  In  God's  name  what  does  all  this  mean?  " 
he  asked.  "  Are  you,  the  most  level-headed 
woman  in  the  world,  intending  to  uphold 
Gertrude  in  this  —  suicidal  policy  —  her  — 
this  —  absurd  nonsense  about  that  girl?" 

Gertrude's  eyes  widened.  She  slowly 
arose  from  his  knee.  The  revelation  as  to 
her  father's  mental  outlook  was,  to  her  more 
sensitive  and  developed  nature,  much  what 
the  one  had  been  to  Francis  King  that  night 
at  the  club. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  she  said  softly.  "  I  am  so 
sorry  for  —  so  sorry  —  for  us  all.  We  seem 
so  far  apart,  and  —  "    • 


prag  l!?ou,  Sir,  TIClbose  Daugbter7  143 

"  John  Martin  agrees  with  me  perfectly," 
said  her  father,  hotly.  "  I  talked  with  him 
to-day.     He  —  " 

Gertrude  glanced  at  her  mother,  and  there 
was  a  definite  curl  upon  her  lip.  "  Mr.  Mar- 
tin," she  said  slowly,  "  is  not  a  conscience 
for  me.  He  and  I  are  leagues  apart,  papa. 
We  —  " 

"  More 's  the  pity,"  said  her  father,  as  he 
arose  from  his  chair.  He  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"I've  said  my  say,  Gertrude.  It's  per- 
fectly incomprehensible  to  me  what  you  two 
are  aiming  at.  But  what  I  know  is  this: 
you  must  do  my  way  in  this  particular  case, 
think  whatever  you  please.  You  know 
very  well  I  would  not  ask  it  except  for 
your  own  good.  I  don't  like  to  interfere 
with  your  plans,  but  —  you  must  give  that 
girl  up."  He  spoke  kindly,  but  Gertrude 
and  her  mother  sat  silent  long  after  he  had 
gone.  The  twilight  had  passed  into  dark- 
ness. Presently  Katherine's  voice  broke 
the  silence: — 

"  Shall  you  float  with  the  tide,  daughter, 
or  shall  you  try  to  swim  up  stream?  "     She 


144  pras  i?ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daugbter? 

was  thinking  of  the  first  talk  they  had  ever 
had  on  these  subjects,  nearly  two  years  ago 
now,  but  the  girl  recognized  the  old  ques- 
tion. She  stood  up  slowly  and  then  with 
quick  steps  came  to  her  mother's  side. 

"  Don't  try  to  swim  with  me,  mamma.  It 
only  makes  it  harder  for  me  to  see  you  hurt 
in  the  struggle.  Don't  try  to  help  me  any 
more  when  the  eddies  come.  Float,  mamma ; 
I  shall  swim.  I  shall!  I  shall!  And  while 
my  head  is  above  the  waves  that  poor  little 
girl  shall  not  sink." 

She  was  stroking  Katherine's  hair,  and  her 
mother's  hand  drew  her  own  down  to  a  soft 
cheek. 

"  Am  I  right,  mother?  "  she  asked,  softly. 
"  If  you  say  I  am  right,  it  is  enough.  My 
heart  will  ache  to  seem  to  papa  to  do 
wrong,  but  I  can  bear  it  better  than  I  could 
bear  my  own  self -contempt.  Am  I  right, 
mamma  ?  " 

Her  mother  drew  her  hand  to  her  lips, 
and  then  with  a  quick  action  she  threw  both 
arms  about  the  girl  and  whispered  in  her 
ear:  "I  shall  go  back  to  the  old  way.  Swim 
if  you   can,  daughter.     You  are  right,     If 


IPras  fou,  Sir,  THnbose  Daughter?  145 

only  you  are  strong  enough.  That  is  the 
question.  If  only  you  are  strong  enough. 
I  am  not.     I  shall  remain  in  the  old  way." 

There  was  a  steadiness  and  calm  in  her 
voice  which  matched  oddly  enough  with  the 
fire  in  her  eyes  and  the  flush  on  her  cheeks. 

w  Little  mother,  little  mother,"  murmured 
Gertrude,  softly,  as  she  stroked  her  mother's 
hand.  Then  she  kissed  her  and  left  the 
room.  "  With  her  splendid  spirit,  that  she 
should  be  broken  on  the  wheel!"  the  girl 
said  aloud  to  herself,  when  she  had  reached 
her  own  room.  She  did  not  light  the  gas, 
but  sat  by  the  window  watching  the  passers- 
by  in  the  street. 

"  Why  should  papa  have  sent  me  to  col- 
lege," she  was  thinking,  "  where  I  matched 
my  brains  and  thoughts  with  men,  if  I  was 
to  stifle  them  later  on,  and  subordinate  them 
to  brains  I  found  no  better  than  my  own? 
Why  should  my  conscience  be  developed,  if 
it  must  not  be  used;  if  I  must  use  as  my 
guide  the  conscience  of  another?  Why 
should  I  have  a  separate  and  distinct  nature 
in  all  things,  if  I  may  use  only  that  part  of 
it  which   conforms  to  those  who  have   not 


146        pras  lou,  sir,  UGlbose  2>augbter? 

the  same  in  type  or  kind?  I  will  do  what 
seems  right  to  myself.  I  shall  not  desert  —  " 

She  laid  her  cheek  in  her  hand  and  sighed. 
A  new  train  of  thought  was  rising.  It  had 
never  come  to  her  before. 

"  It  is  my  father's  money.  He  says  I  may 
send  it,  but  I  may  not  —  it  is  my  father's 
money.  He  has  the  right  to  say  how  it 
may  be  used,  and — and  — "  (the  blood 
was  coming  into  her  face)  w  I  have  nothing 
but  what  he  gives  me.  He  wants  a  pleasant 
home;  he  pays  for  it.  Susan  and  James, 
and  the  rest,  he  hires  to  conduct  the  labor 
of  the  house.  If  they  do  not  do  it  to  please 
him  —  if  they  are  not  willing  to  —  they 
have  no  right  to  stay,  and  then  to  complain. 
For  his  social  life  at  home  he  has  mamma 
and  me.  If  he  wants  —  "  She  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  room  now.  "  Have  we  a 
right  to  dictate?  We  have  our  places  in 
his  home.  We  are  not  paid  wages  like 
James  and  Susan,  but  —  but  —  we  are  given 
what  we  have;  we  are  dependent.  He  has 
never  refused  us  anything —  any  sum  we 
wanted  —  but  he  can.  It  is  in  his  power, 
and   really  we   do   not   know  but   that   he 


pras  lou,  Sir,  TWlbose  H)auGbter?  147 

should.  Perhaps  we  spend  too  much.  We 
do  not  know.  What  can  he  afford?  I  do 
not  know.  What  can  /  afford?"  She 
spread  her  hands  out  before  her,  palms  up, 
in  the  darkness.  She  could  see  them  by  the 
flicker  of  the  electric  light  in  the  street. 

"They  are  empty,"  she  said,  aloud,  "and 
they  are  untrained,  and  they  are  helpless. 
They  are  a  pauper's  hands.  "  She  smiled  a 
little  at  the  conceit,  and  then,  slowly :  "  It 
sounds  absurd,  almost  funny,  but  it  is  true. 
A  pauper  in  lace  and  gold!  I  am  over 
twenty-two.  I  am  as  much  a  dependent 
and  a  pauper  as  if  I  were  in  a  poorhouse. 
Love  and  kindness  save  me!  They  have 
not  saved  Ettie,  nor  Francis.  When  the 
day  came  they  were  compelled  to  yield  ut- 
terly, or  go.  They  can  work,  and  I?  I 
am  a  dependent.  Have  I  a  right  to  stand 
against  the  will  and  pleasure  of  my  father, 
when  by  doing  so  I  compel  him  to  seem  to 
sustain  and  support  that  which  he  disap- 
proves?    Have  I  a  right  to  do  that? ': 

She  was  standing  close  to  the  window 
now,  and  she  put  her  hot  face  against  the 
glass.     "  The  problem  is  easy  enough,  if  all 


148         Eras  iou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daugbter? 

think  alike — if  one  does  not  think  at  all; 
but  now?  I  cannot  follow  my  own  con- 
science and  my  father's  too.  We  do  not 
think  alike.  Is  it  right  that  I  should,  to 
buy  his  approval  and  smiles,  violate  my 
own  mind,  and  brain,  and  heart?  But  is  it 
right  for  me  to  violate  his  sense  of  what  is 
right,  while  I  live  upon  the  lavish  and  loving 
bounty  which  he  provides  ? "  And  so,  with 
her  developed  conscience,  and  reason,  and 
individuality,  Gertrude  had  come  to  face 
the  same  problem,  which,  in  its  more  brutal 
form,  had  resulted  so  sorrowfully  for  the  two 
girls  whom  she  had  hoped  to  befriend.  The 
ultimate  question  of  individual  domination 
of  one  by  another,  with  the  purse  as  the 
final  appeal  —  and  even  this  strong  and  for- 
tunate girl  wavered.  "  Shall  I  swim,  after 
all?  Havel  the  right  to  try?"  she  asked 
herself. 


IPrag  !£ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter?  149 


xn. 

When  Francis  King  told  Mr.  Avery  that 
she  could  and  would  leave  her  father's  home 
and  live  upon  the  money  she  earned,  and 
had  heretofore  looked  upon  as  merely  a  re- 
source to  save  her  pride,  she  did  not  take 
into  consideration  certain  very  important 
facts,  not  the  least  of  which  was,  perhaps, 
that  her  presence  at  the  store  was  not  wholly 
a  pleasant  thing  for  the  cashier  to  contem- 
plate under  existing  circumstances. 

Francis  King  was  not  a  diplomat.  The 
cashier  was  not  a  martyr.  These  two  facts, 
added  to  the  giiTs  scornful  eyes,  rendered 
the  position  in  the  trimming  department 
far  less  secure  than  she  had  grown  to 
believe. 

So  when  she  came  to  the  little  room  which 
Gertrude  Foster  had  provided  as  a  tem- 
porary home  for  Ettie  Berton,  she  felt  that 


>oo>  praE  U?ou,  Sir,  TKIlbose  Dauobter? 

she  came  as  a  help  and  protector  and  not  at 
all  as  a  possible  encumbrance. 

"  I've  had  a  terrible  blow-ont  with  pa," 
she  said,  bitterly.  "  I  can't  go  home  any 
more  if  I  wanted  to  —  and  I  don't  want  to. 
I  told  him  what  I  thought  of  him,  and  of 
your  —  and  of  the  kind  of  men  that  make 
mean  laws  they  are  ashamed  to  have  their 
own  folks  know  about  and  live  by.  He  was 
awful  mad.  He  said  laws  was  none  o'  my 
business,  and  he  guessed  men  knew  best 
what  was  right  an'  good  for  women." 

"  Of  course  they  do,"  said  Ettie  with  her 
ever  ready  acquiescence.  "I  reckon  you 
didn't  want  V  deny  that,  did  you  Fan?  You 
'n  your  pa  must  a'  shook  hands  for  once 
anyhow,"  she  laughed.  "How'd  it  feel? 
Didn't  you  like  agreein'  with  him  once?  "• 

Francis  looked  at  the  child  —  this  pitiful 
illustration  of  the  theory  of  yielding  acqui- 
escence ;  this  legitimate  blossom  of  the  tree 
of  ignorance  and  soft-hearted  dependence; 
this  poor  little  dwarf  of  individuality;  this 
helpless  echo  of  masculine  measures,  meth- 
ods, and  morals  —  and  Wondered  vaguely  why 
it  was   that   the   more  helpless  the  victim, 


IPras  JL'ou,  Sir,  TlQlbose  DauQbter?  151 

the  more  complete  her  disaster,  the  more 
certain  was  she  to  accept,  believe  in,  and 
support  the  very  cause  and  root  of  her  un- 
doing. 

Francis  King's  own  mental  processes  were 
too  disjointed  and  ill -formulated  to  enable 
her  to  express  the  half-formed  thoughts 
that  came  to  her.  Her  heart  ached  for  her 
little  friend  to  whom  to-day  was  always 
welcome,  and  to  whom  to-morrow  never  ap- 
peared a  possibility  other  than  that  it  would 
be  sunshiny,  and  warm,  and  comfortable. 

Francis  saw  a  certain  to-morrow  which 
should  come  to  Ettie,  far  more  clearly  than 
did  the  child  herself,  and  seeing,  sighed. 
Her  impulse  was  to  argue  the  case  hotly 
with  Ettie,  as  she  had  done  with  her  father; 
but  she  looked  at  her  face  again,  and  then, 
as  a  sort  of  safety-valve  for  her  own  emo- 
tion, succinctly  said:  "Ettie  Berton,  you 
are  the  biggest  fool  I  ever  saw." 

Ettie  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Right  you  are,  says  Moses ! "  she  ex- 
claimed, laughing  gleefully,  "and  you  like 
me  for  it.  Folks  with  sense  like  fools. 
Sense  makes  people  so  awful  uncomfortable. 


152  fl>ras  l?ou,  Sir,  "Wllbose  Baugbter? 

Say,  where'd  you  get  that  bird  on  your  hat? 
Out  'o  stock?  Did  that  old  mean  thing 
make  you  pay  full  price?  Goodness!  how 
I  do  wish  I  could  go  back  t'  store ! " 

"Ettie,  how'd  you  like  for  me  to  come 
here  an' live  with  you?  Do  you  'spose  Miss 
Gertrude  would  care  ?  " 

"  Hurrah  for  Cleveland ! "  exclaimed  Ettie, 
springing  to  her  feet  and  throwing  her  arms 
about  Francis.  "  Hurrah  for  Grant !  Gra- 
cious, but  I'm  glad!  I'm  just  so  lonesome 
I  had  to  make  my  teeth  ache  for  company," 
she  rattled  on.  "  Miss  Gertrude  '11  be  glad, 
too.  She  said  she  wisht  I  had  somebody  't 
take  care  of  me.  But,  gracious !  I  don't  need 
that.  They  ain't  nothing  to  do  but  just  set 
still  n'  wait.  It's  the  waitin'  now  that  makes 
me  so  lonesome.  I  want  t'  hurry  'n  get 
back  t'  the  store,  'n  —  " 

She  noticed  Francis's  look  of  surprise,  not 
unmixed  with  frank  scorn;  but  she  did  not 
rightly  interpret  it. 

"My  place  ain't  gone  is  it,  Fan?"  she 
asked,  in  real  alarm.  .  "He  said  he'd  keep  it 
for  me." 

"Ettie  Bert  on,  you  are  the  biggest  fool  I 


IPrag  H?ou,  Sir,  TIClbose  Daugbter?  153 

ever  saw,"  said  Francis,  again,  this  time  with 
a  touch  of  hopelessness  and  pathos  in  her 
voice,  and  at  that  moment  there  was  a  rap 
at  the  door.  It  was  one  of  the  cash  girls 
from  the  store.  She  handed  Francis  a  note, 
and  while  Ettie  and  the  visitor  talked  gaily 
of  the  store,  Francis  read  and  covered  her 
pale  face  with  her  trembling  hands.  She 
was  discharged  "owing  to  certain  necessary 
changes  to  be  made  in  the  trimming  depart- 
ment." She  went  and  stood  by  the  window 
with  her  back  to  the  two  girls.  She  under- 
stood the  matter  perfectly,  and  she  did  not 
dare  trust  herself  to  speak.  It  could  not  be 
helped,  she  thought,  and  why  let  Ettie  know 
that  she  had  brought  this  disaster  upon  her 
friend,  also.  Francis  was  trying  to  think. 
She  was  raging  within  herself.  Then  it 
came  to  her  that  she  had  boldly  asserted 
that  she  would  help  protect  and  support 
Ettie.  Now  she  was  penniless,  helpless, 
and  homeless  herself.  There  were  but  two 
faces  that  stood  out  before  her  as  the  faces 
of  those  to  whom  she  could  go  for  help  and 
counsel,  and  she  was  afraid  to  go  to  even 


•      154  ff»rag  J^ou,  Sir,  IHbose  DaugbterT 

these.     She   was   ashamed,  humiliated,  un- 
certain. 

She  supposed  that  Gertrude  Foster  could 
help  her  if  she  would.  She  had  that  vague 
miscomprehension  of  facts  which  makes  the 
less  fortunate  look  upon  the  daughters  of 
wealth  and  luxury  and  love  as  possessed 
of  a  magic  wand  which  they  need  but  stretch 
forth  to  compass  any  end.  She  did  not 
dream  that  at  that  very  moment  Gertrude 
Foster  was  revolving  exactly  the  same  prob- 
lem in  her  own  mind,  and  reaching  out 
vainly  for  a  solution.  "What  shall  I  do? 
what  ought  I  to  do?  what  can  I  do?" 
were  questions  as  real  and  immediate  to 
Gertrude,  in  the  new  phase  of  life  and 
thought  which  had  come  to  her,  as  they 
were  to  Francis  in  her  extremity.  It  is  true 
that  the  greater  part  of  the  problem  in 
Francis's  mind  dealt  with  the  physical  needs 
of  herself  and  her  little  friend,  and  with  her 
own  proud  and  fierce  anger  toward  her 
father  and  the  cashier.  It  is  also  true  that 
these  features  touched  Gertrude  but  lightly ; 
but  the  highest  ideals,  beliefs,  aspirations, 
and  love  of  her  soul  were  in  conflict  within 


prag  10ou,  Sir,  Timbose  2>au0bter?  155 

her,  and  the  basis  of  the  conflict  was  the 
same  with  both  girls.  Each  had,  in  follow- 
ing the  best  that  was  within  herself,  come 
into  violent  contact  with  established  preju- 
dice and  prerogative,  and  each  was  beating 
her  wings,  the  one  against  the  bars  of 
a  gilded  cage  draped  lovingly  in  silken 
threads,  and  the  other  was  feeling  her  help- 
lessness where  iron  and  wrath  unite  to  hold 

their  prey. 

The  other  face  that  arose  before  Francis 
brought  the  blood  back  to  her  face.  She 
had  not  seen  him  since  she  had  kissed  his 
hand  that  night,  and  she  wondered  what  he 
thought  of  her.  She  felt  ashamed  to  go  to 
him  for  help.  She  had  talked  so  confidently 
to  him  that  night  of  her  own  powers,  and  of 
her  determination  that  Ettie  should  not 
again  live  under  the  same  roof,  and  be  sub- 
ject to  the  will  of  the  father  whom  she  in- 
sisted was  a  disgrace  to  the  child. 

"  I  reckon  he  could  get  me  another  place 
to  work — in  a  store,"  she  thought.  "But — " 
She  shook  her  head,  and  a  fierce  light  came 
into  her  eyes.  She  had  learned  enough  to 
know  that  a  girl  who  had  left  home  under 


156  ff>rag  |)out  Sir,  UHbose  2>au0btct? 

the  wrath  of  her  father,  would  hest  not 
appeal  for  a  situation  under  the  protection 
and  recommendation  of  a  young  gentleman 
not  of  her  own  caste  or  condition  in  life. 
She  thought  of  all  this  and  of  what  it  im- 
plied, and  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  heart 
would  burst  with  shame  and  rage. 

Was  she  not  a  human  being?  Were  there 
not  more  reasons  than  one  why  another 
human  unit  should  be  kind  to  her  and  help 
her?  If  she  were  a  boy  all  this  shame  would 
be  lifted  from  her  shoulders,  all  these  sus- 
picions and  repression  and  artificial  barriers 
would  be  gone.  She  wondered  if  she  could 
not  get  a  suit  of  men's  clothes,  and  so  solve 
the  whole  trouble.  No  one  would  then 
question  her  own  right  of  individual  and 
independent  action  or  thought.  No  one 
would  then  think  it  commendable  for  her  to 
be  a  useless  atom,  subordinating  her  whole 
indivi duality  to  one  man,  to  whose  mental 
and  moral  tone  she  must  bend  her  own, 
until  such  time  as  he  should  turn  her  over 
to  some  other  human  entity,  whereupon  she 
would  be  required  to  readjust  all  her  mental 
and  moral  belongings  to  accommodate  the 


Iptag  HJou,  Sir,  Ulllbose  Baugbter?  157 

new  master.     How  comfortable  it  would  be, 
she  thought,  to  go  right  on  year  after  year, 
growing  into  and  out  of  herself.    Expanding 
her  own  nature,  and  finding  the  woman  of 
to-morrow  the  outcome  of  the  girl  of  yester- 
day.    She  had  once  heard  a  teacher  explain 
about  the  chameleon   with   its   capacity  to 
adjust  itself  to   and   take   on  the  color  of 
other  objects.     It  floated  into  her  mind  that 
girls  were  expected  to  be  like  chameleons. 
Instead   of   being    John   King's   daughter, 
with,  of  course,  John  King's   ideas,  status 
and  aspirations,  or  William  Jones's  wife  — 
now  metamorphosed  into  a  tepid   reflex  of 
William  Jones  himself  —  she  thought  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  continue  to  be  Fran- 
cis King,  and  not  feel  afraid  to  say  so.     The 
idea  fascinated  her.     Yes,  she  would  get  a 
suit  of  men's  clothes,  and  henceforth  have 
and  feel  the  dignity  of  individual  responsi- 
bility and  development.     She  slipped  out  of 
the  room  and  into  the  street.     She  thought 
she  would  order  the  clothes  as  if    :?for  a 
brother  just  my  size."     She  could  pay  for  a 
cheap  suit.     She  paused  in  front  of  a  shop 
window,  and  the  sight  of  her  own  face  in  a 


158        IPrag  l>out  Sir,  TKftbose  ©augbter? 

glass  startled  her.  She  groaned  aloud.  She 
knew  as  she  looked  that  she  was  too  hand- 
some to  pass  for  a  man.  It  was  a  woman's 
face.  Then,  too,  how  could  she  live  with 
and  care  for  Ettie? 

"  No,  Til  have  to  go  to  them  for  help," 
she  said,  desperately  to  herself,  and  turning, 
faced  Selden  Avery  coming  across  the 
street.  The  color  flew  into  her  face,  but 
she  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  did  not  think  of 
their  last  meeting  —  or,  at  least,  not  of  its 
ending.  "I  was  just  wishing  I  could  see 
you  and  Miss  Gertrude,"  she  said,  bluntly, 
her  courage  coming  back  when  he  paused, 
recognizing  that  she  wished  to  speak  further 
with  him  than  a  mere  greeting. 

"Were  you?"  he  said,  smiling.  "Our 
thoughts  were  half-way  the  same  then,  for  I 
was  wishing  to  see  her,  too." 

She  thought  how  pleasant  and  soft  his 
voice  was,  and  she  tried  to  modify  the  tones 
of  her  own. 

"I  was  goin'  t'  ask  you — her  —  what  to 
do  about  —  about  something,"  she  said,  fal- 
teringly. 

w  So  was  I,"  he  smiled  back,  showing  his 


ptas  lou,  Sir,  Wbose  ©augbtert         159 

perfect  teeth.  "She  will  have  to  be  very, 
very  wise  to  advise  us  both,  will  she  not? 
Shall  we  go  to  her  now?  And  together? 
Perhaps  our  united  wisdom  may  solve  both 
your  problem  and  mine.  Three  people 
ought  to  be  three  times  as  wise  as  one, 
oughtn't  they?" 


160         jprag  iou,  Sir,  TMbose  ©augbter? 


xni. 

"When  Gertrude  came  forward  to  meet 
Selden  Avery  and  Francis  King,  she  felt 
the  disapproving  eyes  of  her  father  fixed 
upon  her.  It  was  a  new  and  a  painful 
sensation.  It  made  her  greeting  less  free 
and  frank  than  usual,  and  both  Avery  and 
Francis  felt  without  being  able  to  analyze  it. 

"She  don't  like  me  to  be  with  him," 
thought  Francis,  and  felt  humiliated  and 
hurt. 

"  Surely  Gertrude  cannot  doubt  me,"  was 
Avery's  mental  comment,  and  a  sore  spot  in 
his  heart,  left  by  a  comment  made  at  the 
club  touching  Gertrude's  friendship  for  this 
same  tall,  fiery  girl  at  his  side,  made  itself 
felt  again.  John  Martin  exchanged  glances 
with  Gertrude's  father.  Avery  saw,  and 
seeing,  resented  what  he  believed  to  be  its 
meaning. 

The  three  men  bowed  rather  stiffly  to  each 


ftras  i?out  Sir,  "Cdbose  2>auabtet?  161 

other.  Francis  felt  that  she  was,  somehow, 
to  blame.  She  wished  that  she  had  not  come. 
She  longed  to  go,  but  did  not  know  what  to 
say  nor  how  to  start.  The  situation  was 
awkward  for  all.  Gertrude  wished  for  and 
yet  dreaded  the  entrance  of  her  mother. 

Avery  felt  ashamed  to  explain,  but  he  be- 
gan as  if  speaking  to  Gertrude  and  ended 
with  a  look  of  challenge  at  the  two  men 
facing  him.  T I  chanced  to  meet  Miss  King- 
in  the  street  and  as  both  of  us  stood  in  need 
of  advice  from  you,"  he  was  trying  to  smile 
unconcernedly,  "  we  came  up  the  avenue 
together." 

There  was  a  distinct  look  of  displeasure 
and  disapproval  upon  Mr.  Foster's  face, 
while  John  Martin  took  scant  pains  to 
conceal  his  disgust.  He,  also,  had  heard, 
and  repeated,  the  club  gossip  to  Gertrude's 
father. 

"If  good  advice  is  what  you  want  par- 
ticularly," said  Mr.  Foster,  sloAvly,  "  I  don't 
know  but  that  I  might  accommodate  you. 
I  hardly  think  Gertrude  is  in  a  position  to  — 
to  —  " 

The  bell  rang  sharply  and  in  an  instant 


162  U>ras  i?ou,  Sir,  TWlbose  Daughter? 

the  little  cash  girl  from  the  store  rushed 
in  gasping  for  breath. 

"  Come  quick !  quick !  Ettie  is  killed ! 
She  fell  down  stairs  and  then  —  oh,  some- 
thing awful  happened !  I  don't  know  what 
it  was.  The  doctor  is  there.  He  sent  me 
here,  'cause  Ettie  cried  and  called  for  you!  " 

She  was  looking  at  Gertrude,  who  started 
toward  the  door. 

w  Go  back  and  tell  the  doctor  that  Miss 
Foster  cannot  come,"  said  her  father,  rising. 

"  Certainly  not,  I  should  hope,"  remarked 
John  Martin  under  his  breath;  "the  most 
preposterous  idea !  "  Gertrude  paused.  She 
was  looking  at  her  father  with  appeal  in  her 
face.  Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  tense 
lips  and  piercing  gaze  of  Francis  Iving  who, 
half  way  to  the  street  door,  had  turned  and 
was  looking  first  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Papa,"  said  Gertrude,  "don't  say  that. 
I  must  go.  It  is  right  that  I  should,  and  I 
must."  Then  with  outstretched  hands,  "I 
want  to  go,  papa!     I  need  to.     Don't  —  " 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Ger- 
trude. It  is  outrageous.  What  business 
have   you  got  with  that  kind  of   girls?     I 


pras  f  ou,  Sir,  Wbose  Daughter?  163 

ashed  you  to  stop  having  them  come  here, 
and  I  told  you  to  let  them  alone.  I  am  per- 
fectly disgusted  with  Avery,  here,  for  —  " 
He  had  thought  Francis  was  gone.  The 
drapery  where  she  had  turned  to  hear  what 
Gertrude  would  say  hid  her  from  him. 
"  With  that  ~kind  of  girls  /"  was  ringing  in 
her  ears. 

"I  hope  when  you  are  married  that  is  not 
the  sort  of  society  he  is  going  to  surround 
you  with.  It  —  "  Avery  saw  for  the  first 
time  what  the  trouble  was.  He  stepped 
quickly  to  Gertrude's  side  and  slipped  one 
arm  about  her.  Then  he  took  the  hand  she 
still  held  toward  her  father. 

"  My  wife  shall  have  her  own  choice.  She 
is  as  capable  as  I  to  choose.  I  shall  not  in- 
terfere. She  shall  not  find  me  a  master,  but 
a  comrade.  Gertrude  is  her  own  judge  and 
my  adviser.  That  is  all  I  ask,  and  it  is  all  I 
assume  for  myself  as  her  husband  —  when 
that  time  comes,"  he  added,  with  her  hand 
to  his  lips. 

Mrs.  Foster  entered  attired  for  the  street. 
The  unhappy  face  of  Francis  King  with  wide 
eyes  staring  at  Gertrude  met  her  gaze.     She 


164  fl>ras  H)ou,  Sir,  Hflbosc  Daughter  1 

had  heard  what  went  before.  "  Get  your 
hat,  Gertrude,"  she  said.  I  will  go  with 
you.  It  might  take  too  long  to  get  a  car- 
riage. Francis,  come  with  me;  Gertrude 
will  follow  us.  Come  with  her,  my  son," 
she  said,  to  Selden  Avery,  and  a  spasm  of 
happiness  swept  over  his  face.  She  had 
never  called  him  that  before.  He  stooped 
and  kissed  her,  and  there  were  tears  in  the 
young  man's  eyes  as  Mrs.  Foster  led  Fran- 
cis King  away. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  all  my  fault  to  begin 
with,"  said  John  Martin,  when  the  door  had 
closed  behind  them.  "It  all  started  from 
that  visit  to  the  Spillinis.  The  only  way  to 
keep  the  girls  of  this  age  in  —  "  he  was  go- 
ing to  say  "  in  their  place,"  but  he  changed 
to  " ?  where  they  belong,'  is  not  to  let  them 
find  out  the  facts  of  life.  Charity  and  re- 
ligion did  well  enough  to  appease  the  con- 
sciences of  women  before  they  had  colleges, 
and  all  that.  I  didn't  tell  you  so  at  the  time, 
but  I  always  did  think  it  was  a  mistake  to 
send  Gertrude  to  a  college  where  she  could 
measure  her  wits  with  men.  She'll  never 
give  it  up.     She  don't  know  where  to  stop." 


lprag  L>ou,  Sir,  TXflbose  Daughter?  1G5 

Mr.  Foster  lighted  a  cigar — a  thing  he  sel- 
dom did  in  the  drawing-room.  He  handed 
one  to  John  Martin. 

w  I  guess  you're  right,  John,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "  She  can't  seem  to  see  that  gradu- 
ation day  ended  all  that.  It  was  Katherine's 
idea,  sending  her  there,  though.  I  wanted 
her  to  go  to  Yassar  or  some  girl's  school 
like  that.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of 
Katherine  lately;  when  I  come  to  think  of 
it,  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her  all 
along.  She  seems  to  have  laid  this  plan 
from  the  first,  college  and  all ;  but  I  never 
saw  it.  Sometimes  I'm  afraid —  sometimes 
I  almost  think  —  "  He  tapped  his  forehead 
and  shook  his  head,  and  John  Martin  nodded 
contemplatively,  and  said:  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you  are  right,  Fred.  Too  much 
study  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  women.  The 
structure  of  their  brains  won't  stand  it.  It 
is  sad,  very  sad;"  and  they  smoked  in  sym- 
pathetic silence,  while  James  had  hastened 
below  stairs  to  assure  Susan  that  he  thought 
he'd  catch  himself  allowing  his  sweetheart 
or  wife  to  demean  herself  and  disgrace  him 
by  having  anything  to  do  with  a  person  in 


166         fl>rag  HJou,  Sir,  IWlbose  Bauflbter? 

the  position  of  Ettie  Berton.  And  Susan 
had  little  doubt  that  James  was  quite  right, 
albeit  Susan  felt  moderately  sure  that  in  a 
contest  of  wits  —  after  the  happy  day  —  she 
could  be  depended  upon  to  get  her  own  way 
by  hook  or  by  crook,  and  Susan  had  no  vast 
fund  of  scruple  to  allay  as  to  method  or 
motive.  Deception  was  not  wholly  out  of 
Susan's  line.  Its  necessity  did  not  disturb 
her  slumbers. 


Ipras  l!?ou,  Sir,  tldbose  2)augbtecT  ic; 


XIY. 

Some  one  had  sent  for  Ettie's  father. 
They  told  him  that  she  was  dying,  and  he 
had  come  at  once.  Mr.  King  had  gone  with 
him.  The  latter  gentleman  did  not  much 
approve  .of  his  colleague's  soft-heartedness 
in  going.  lie  did  not  know  where  his  own 
daughter  was,  and  he  did  not  care.  She  had 
faced  him  in  her  fiery  way,  and  angered  him 
beyond  endurance  the  morning  after  she  had 
learned  of  the  awful  bill  which  he  had  not 
really  originated,  but  which  he  had  induced 
Mr.  Berton  to  present,  at  the  earnest  behest 
of  a  social  lion  whose  wont  it  Avas  to  roar 
mightily  in  the  interest  of  virtue,  but  who 
was  at  the  present  moment  engaged  in  lob- 
bying vigorously  in  the  interest  of  vice. 

When  Francis  entered  the  sick-room  with 
Mrs.  Foster,  and  found  the  two  men  there, 
she  gave  one  glance  at  the  pallid,  uncon- 
scious figure  on  the  bed,  and  then  demanded, 


168  lprag  lou,  Sir,  IGlbose  Bauflbter? 

fiercely:  "Where  is  the  cashier?  Why 
didn't  you  bring  him  and  —  and  the  rest  of 
you  who  help  make  laws  to  keep  him  where 
he  is,  an'  —  an'  to  put  Ettie  where  she  is? 
Why  didn't  y'  bring  all  of  your  kind  that 
helped  along  the  job?  " 

Mrs.  Foster  had  been  bending  over  the 
child  on  the  bed.     She  turned. 

"  Don't,  Francis,"  she  said,  trying  to  draw 
the  girl  away.  She  was  standing  before 
the  two  men,  who  were  near  the  window. 
"Don't,  Francis.  That  can  do  no  good.  They 
did  not  intend  —  " 

"  No'm," began  Berton,  awkwardly ;  " no'm, 
I  didn't  once  think  o'  my  girl,  n — "  He 
glanced  uneasily  at  his  colleague  and  then 
at  the  face  on  the  bed. 

"  Or  you  would  never  have  wanted  such 
a  law  passed,  I  am  sure,"  said  Katherine. 

"No'm,  I  wouldn't,"  he  said,  doggedly, 
not  looking  at  his  colleague. 

"  Don't  tell  me !  "  exclaimed  Francis. 
"  You  don't  none  of  you  care  for  her.  He 
only  cares  because  it  is  his  girl  an'  disgraces 
him.  What  did  he  do?  Care  for  her? 
No,  he    drove   her   off.     That   shows   who 


lPrag  l?ouf  Sir,  TlObose  ©augbter?  169 

he's  a-carin'  for.  He  ain't  sorry  because 
it  hurts  or  murders  her.  He  never  tried 
to  make  it  easy  for  her  an'  say  he  was  a 
lot  more  to  blame  an'  —  an'  —  a  big  sight 
worse  every  way  than  she  was.  He's  a- 
howling  now  about  bein'  sorry;  but  he's 
only  sorry  for  himself.  He'd  a  let  her 
starve  —  an'  so'd  7ie"  she  said,  pointing  to 
her  father.  She  was  trembling  with  rage 
and  excitement.  "I  hope  there  is  a  hell! 
I  jest  hope  there  is!  I'll  be  willin'  to  go 
to  it  myself  jest  t'  see  — " 

The  door  opened  softly  and  Gertrude 
entered,  and  behind  her  stood  Selden  Avery. 

"That  kind  of  girls"  floated  anew  into 
Francis's  brain,  and  the  sting  of  the  words 
she  had  heard  Gertrude's  father  utter  drove 
her  on.  "I  wish  to  God,  every  man  that 
ever  lived  could  be  torn  to  pieces  an'  —  an' 
put  under  Ettie's  feet.  They  wouldn't  be 
fit  for  her  to  walk  on  —  none  of  'em !  She 
never  did  no  harm  on  purpose  ner  when  she 
understood;  an'  men  —  men  jest  love  to  be 
mean! " 

She  felt  the  utter  inadequacy  of  her  words, 
and  a  great  wave  of  feeling  and  a  sense  of 


170  IPrag  J^ou,  Sir,  Timbose  Daughter? 

baffled  resentment  swept  over  her,  and  she 
burst  into  tears.  Gertrude  tried  to  draw 
her  out  of  the  room.  At  the  door  she 
sobbed:  "Even  her  father's  jest  like  the 
rest,  only  —  only  he  says  it  easier.    He — " 

"Francis,  Francis,"  said  Gertrude,  almost 
sternly,  when  they  were  outside  the  sick- 
room. "  You  must  not  act  so.  It  does  no 
good,  and  —  and  you  are  partly  wrong,  be- 
sides.    If  — " 

"  I  didn't  mean  hi?n"  said  the  girl,  with 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  I  didn't 
mean  Mm.  I  know  what  he  thinks  about  it. 
I  heard  him  talk  one  night  at  the  club.  He 
talked  square,  an'  I  reckon  he  is  square. 
But  /wouldn't  take  no  chances.  I  wouldn't 
marry  the  Angel  Gabriel  an'  give  him  a 
chance  to  lord  it  over  me !  " 

Gertrude  smiled  in  spite  of  herself,  and 
glanced  within  through  the  open  door. 
There  was  a  movement  towards  where  the 
sick  girl  lay.  "  If  you  go  in,  you  must  be 
quiet,"  she  said  to  Francis,  and  entered. 
Ettie  had  been  stirring  uneasily.  She 
opened  her  great  blue  eyes,  and  when  she 
saw  the  faces  about  her,  began  to  sob  aloud. 


IPras  Ji?ou,  Sir,  IClbose  Daugbter?  171 

"Don't  let  pa  scold  me.  I'll  do  his  way. 
I'll  do  —  anything  anybody  wants.  I  like 
to.  The  store  — "  She  gave  a  great  shriek 
of  agony.  She  had  tried  to  move  and  fell 
back  in  a  convulsion.  She  was  only  partly 
conscious  of  her  suffering,  but  the  sight  was 
terrible  enough  to  sympathetic  hearts,  and 
there  was  but  one  pair  of  dry  eyes  in  the 
room.  The  same  beady,  stern,  hard  glitter 
held  its  place  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  King. 

"Serves  her  right,"  he  was  thinking. 
"And  a  mighty  good  lesson.  Bringin'  dis- 
grace on  a  good  man's  name !  " 

The  tenacity  with  which  Mr.  King  ad- 
hered to  the  belief  in,  and  solicitude  for,  a 
good  name,  would  have  been  touching  had 
it  not  been  noticeable  to  the  least  observant 
that  his  theory  was,  that  the  custody  of  that 
desirable  belonging  was  vested  entirely  in 
the  female  members  of  a  family.  Nothing 
short  of  the  most  austere  morals  could  pre- 
serve the  family  'scutcheon  if  he  was  con- 
templating one  side.  Nothing  short  of  a 
long-continued,  open,  varied,  and  obtrusive 
dishonesty  and  profligacy  of  a  male  member 
could  even  dull  its  lustre.     It  was  a  com- 


172  ©rag  lou,  Sir,  TflUbose  Dausbter? 

fortable  code  for  a  part  of   its    adherents. 

Had  his  poor,  colorless,  inane  wife  evei 
dared  to  deviate  from  the  beaten  path  of 
social  observance,  Mr.  King  would  have 
talked  about  and  felt  that  "  his  honor "  was 
tarnished.  Were  he  to  follow  far  less 
strictly  the  code,  he  would  not  only  be  sure 
that  his  own  honor  was  intact,  but  if  any 
one  were  to  suggest  to  him  the  contrary,  or 
that  he  was  compromising  her  honor,  he 
would  have  looked  upon  that  person  as 
lacking  in  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  w  com- 
mon horse-sense."  He  was  in  no  manner  a 
hypocrite.  His  sincerity  was  undoubted. 
He  followed  the  beaten  track.  "Was  it  not 
the  masculine  reason  and  logic  of  the  ages, 
and  was  not  that  final?  Was  not  all  other 
reason  and  logic  merely  a  spurious  emotion- 
alism?    morbid?   unwholesome?   irrational? 

No  one  would  gainsay  that  unless  it  were 
a  lunatic  or  a  woman,  which  was  much 
the  same  thing — and  since  the  opinion  of 
neither  of  these  was  valuable,  why  discuss 
or  waste  time  with  them?  That  was  Mr. 
King's  point  of  view,  and  he  was  of  the  opin- 
ion that  he  had  a  pretty  good  voting  majority 


fl>rag  Jl)ou,  Sir,  TKflbose  H>augbter7  173 

with  him,  and  a  voting  majority  was  the 
measure  of  value  and  ethics  with  Represen- 
tative King — when  the  voting  majority 
was  on  his  side. 

When  the  last  awful  agony  came  to  poor 
little  Ettie  Berton,  and  she  yielded  up,  in 
pathetic  terror  and  reluctant  despair,  the 
life  which  had  been  moulded  for  her  with 
such  a  result  almost  as  inevitable  as  the 
death  itself,  a  wave  of  tenderness  and  re- 
morse swept  over  her  father.  He  buried 
his  face  in  the  pillow  beside  the  poor,  pretty, 
weak,  white  face  that  would  win  favor  and 
praise  by  its  cheerful  ready  acquiescence  no 
more,  and  wept  aloud.  This  impressed 
Representative  King  as  reasonable  enough, 
under  all  the  circumstances,  but  when 
Ettie's  father  intimated  later  to  Francis 
that  he  had  been  to  blame,  and  that,  perhaps, 
after  all,  Ettie  was  only  the  legitimate 
result  of  her  training  and  the  social  and 
legal  conditions  which  he  had  helped  to 
make  and  sustain,  Representative  King 
curled  his  lip  scornfully  and  remarked  that 
in  his  opinion  Tom  Berton  never  could  be 
relied  on  to  be  anything  but  a  damned  fool 


174  fl>ra£  i>out  Sir,  TMbose  Daughter? 

in  the  long  run.  He  was  a  splendid  "starter." 
Always  opened  up  well  in  any  line;  but 
unless  someone  else  held  the  reins  after  that 
the  devil  would  be  to  pay  and  no  mistake. 

Francis  heard ;  and,  hearing,  shut  tight  her 
lips  and  with  her  tear-swollen  eyes  upon  the 
face  of  her  dead  friend,  swore  anew  that  to 
be  disgraced  by  the  presence  of  a  father 
like  that  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 
She  could  work  or  she  could  die;  but 
there  was  nothing  on  this  earth,  she  felt, 
that  would  be  so  impossible,  so  disgraceful, 
as  for  her  to  ever  again  acknowledge  his 
authority  as  her  guide. 

w  Come  home  with  me  to-night,  Francis," 
said  Mrs.  Foster.  fWe  will  think  of  a 
plan  —  " 

"  I'm  goin'  to  stay  right  here,"  said  the 
girl,  with  a  sob  and  a  shiver;  for  she  had 
all  the  horror  and  fear  of  the  dead  that  is 
common  to  her  type  and  her  inexperience. 
"I'm  goin'  to  stay  right  here.  I  can't  go 
home,  an'  I'm  discharged  at  the  store.  Ettie 
told  me  her  rent  was  paid  for  this  month. 
I'll  take  her  place  here  an'  —  an'  try  to 
find  another  place  to  work." 


prag  ]J)ou,  Sir,  Wbose  ©augbter?  175 

Mrs.  Foster  realized  that  to  stay  in  that 
room  would  fill  the  girl  with  terror,  but  she 
felt,  too,  that  she  understood  why  Francis 
would  not  go  home  with  her.  r?  That  kind  of 
girls  "  from  Mr.  Foster's  lips  had  stung  this 
fierce,  sensitive  creature  to  the  quick.  A 
week  ago  she  would  have  been  glad  indeed 
to  accept  Katherine  Foster's  offer.  Now 
she  would  prefer  even  this  chamber  of  death, 
where  the  odors  made  her  ill,  and  the 
thoughts  and  imaginings  would  insure  to 
her  sleepless  nights  of  unreasoning  fear. 
Her  father  did  not  ask  her  to  go  home. 
Representative  King  believed  in  rejDresent- 
ing.  Was  not  his  family  a  unit?  And  was 
he  not  the  figure  which  stood  for  it?  It 
had  never  been  his  custom  to  ask  the  mem- 
bers of  his  household  to  do  things.  He  told 
them  that  he  wanted  certain  lines  of  action 
followed.  That  was  enough.  The  thought 
and  the  will  of  that  ideal  unit,  "  the  family," 
vested  in  the  person  of  Mr.  King  and  he 
proposed  to  represent  it  in  all  things. 

If  by  any  perverse  and  unaccountable 
mental  process  there  was  developed  a 
personality   other   than  and  different  from 


176  IPra*?  lou,  Sir,  TKHbose  2>auflbter? 

his  own,  Rej^resentative  King  did  not  pro- 
pose to  be  disturbed  in  his  home-life —  as  he 
persisted  in  calling  the  portion  of  his  ex- 
istence where  he  was  able  to  hold  the  iron 
hand  of  power  ever  upon  the  throat  of 
submission — to  the  extent  of  having  such 
unseemly  personality  near  him. 

In  her  present  mood  he  did  not  want 
Francis  at  home.  Representative  King  was 
a  staunch  advocate  of  harmony  and  unity  in 
the  family  life.  He  was  of  opinion  that 
where  timidity  and  dependence  say  "yes"  to 
all  that  power  suggests,  that  there  dwelt 
unity  and  harmony.  That  is  to  say,  he 
held  to  this  idea  where  it  touched  the  sexes 
and  their  relation  to  each  other  in  what  he 
designated  an  ideal  domestic  life.  In  all 
other  relations  he  held  far  otherwise — unless 
he  chanced  to  be  on  the  side  of  power 
and  had  a  fair  voting  majority.  Represent- 
ative King  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of 
submission — for  other  people.  He  thought 
that  there  was  nothing  like  self-denial  to 
develop  the  character  and  beauty  of  a  nature. 
It  is  true  that  his  scorn  was  deep  when  he 
contempleted   the    fact   that   John    Berton 


fl>ra$  H?out  Sir,  timbose  Baugbter?  177 

"had  no  head  of  his  own,"  but  then,  John 
Berton  was  a  man,  and  a  man  ought  to  have 
some  self-respect.  He  ought  to  develop  his 
powers  and  come  to  something  definite. 
A  definite  woman  was  a  horror.  Her  attrac- 
tiveness depended  upon  her  vagueness, 
so  Representative  King  thought;  and  if  a 
large  voting  majority  was  not  with  him  in 
open  expression,  he  felt  reasonably  sure  that 
he  could  depend  upon  them  in  secret  session, 
so  to  speak.  Representative  King  was  not 
a  linguist,  but  he  could  read  between  the 
social  and  legal  lines  very  cleverly  indeed, 
and  finer  lines  of  thought  than  these  were 
not  for  Representative  King. 

And  so  he  did  not  ask  Francis  to  go 
home.  "When  she  gets  ready  to  go  my 
way  and  says  so,  she  can  come,"  he  thought. 

"  When  that  dress  gets  shabby  and  she's 
a  little  hungry,  she'll  conclude  that  my  way 
is  good  enough  for  her."  He  smiled  at  the 
vision  of  the  future  "unity  and  harmony" 
which  should  thus  be  ushered  into  his  home 
by  means  of  a  little  judiciously  applied  dis- 
cipline, and  Francis  took  her  dead  friend's 


178  Pras  JJ?ouf  Sir,  Wbose  2>augbter? 

place  as  a  lodger  and  tried  to  think,  between 
her  spasms  of  loneliness  and  fears,  what  she 
should  do  on  the  morrow. 


IPrag  ll)ou,  Sir,  "Cdbose  Daugbter?  179 


XY. 

"  Francis  told  me  once  at  the  Guild  that 
she  can  make  delicious  bread  and  pastry," 
said  Gertrude,  as  they  drove  home.  "I 
wonder  if  we  could  not  start  her  in  a  little 
shop  of  her  own.  She  has  the  energy  and 
vim  to  build  herself  a  business.  I  doubt  if 
she  will  every  marry — with  her  expe- 
rience one  can  hardly  wonder —  and  there  is 
a  long  life  before  her.  Her  salvation  will 
be  work;  a  career,  success." 

"A  career  in  a  pastry  shop  seems  droll 
enough,"  smiled  her  mother,  but — " 

"I  think  I  might  influence  the  club  to 
take  a  good  deal  of  her  stuff.  We've  a 
miserable  pastry  cook  now,"  said  Avery. 
"That  would  help  her  to  get  a  start,  and  the 
start  is  always  the  hard  part,  I  suppose,  in  a 
thing  like  that." 

"  That  would  be  a  splendid  chance.  If 
the  members  liked  her  things,  perhaps  they 


180  ff>rag  H?ou,  Sir,  milbose  Daugbterl 

would  get  their  wives  to  patronize  her,  too," 
said  Gertrude,  gaily.  "I'm  so  glad  you 
thought  of  that,  but  then  you  always  think 
of  the  right  thing,"  she  added,  tenderly. 
They  all  three  laughed  a  little,  and  Avery 
slipped  his  arm  about  her. 

"  Do  I  ? "  he  asked  in  a  voiee  tremulous 
with  happiness.  "Do  I,  Darling?  I'm  so  glad 
you  said  that,  for  I've  just  been  thinking 
that  —  that  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to 
Albany  without  you,  and  —  and  the  new 
session  begins  in  ten  weeks.  Darling,  will 
you  go  with  me?  May  she,  my  mother?" 
he  asked,  catching  Mrs.  Foster's  hand  in  Ins 
own.  The  two  young  people  were  facing 
her.  She  sat  alone  on  the  back  seat  of  the 
closed  carriage.  The  street  lights  were 
beginning  to  blossom  and  nicker.  The  rays 
fell  upon  the  mother's  face  as  they  drove. 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  tears  were  on 
her  cheeks. 

"Forgive  me,  mother,"  said  Avery, 
tenderly.  "Forgive  me!  You  have  gone 
through  so  much  to-day.  I  should  have 
waited;  but — but  I  love   her  so.    I  need 


H>tag  iou,  Sir,  Idbose  Baugbter?  181 

her  so — I  need  her  to  help  me  think  right. 
Can  you  understand?" 

Mrs.  Foster  moved  to  one  side  and  held 
out  both  arms  to  her  daughter. 

"Sit  by  me,"  she  said,  huskily,  and  Ger- 
trude gathered  her  in  her  young,  strong 
arms. 

"Can  I  understand?"  half  sobbed  Kather- 
ine  from  her  daughter's  shoulder.  "Can 
I  understand?  Oh,  I  do!  I  do!  and  I 
am  so  happy  for  you  both;  but  she  —  she  is 
my  daughter,  and  it  is  so  hard  to  let  her 
go — even  to  you!     It  is  so  hard!" 

Gertrude  could  not  speak.  She  tried  to 
look  at  her  lover,  but  tears  filled  her  eyes. 
She  was  holding  her  mother's  hand  to  her 
lips. 

"Dear  little  mamma,"  she  whispered; 
"dear  little  mamma,  I  shall  never  go  if 
it  makes  you  unhappy  —  never,  if  it  breaks 
my  heart.  But  mamma,  I  love  you  more 
because  I  love  him;  and — " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Katherine,  trying 
to  struggle  out  of  her  heartache  which  held 
back  and  beyond  itself  a  tender  joy  for 
these  two.     "But  love  is  so  selfish.     I  am 


182        IPrag  iou,  Sic,  Wbose  Daugbter? 

glad.  I  am  glad  for  you  both — but — oh, 
my  daughter,  I  love  you,  I  love  you ! "  she 
said,  and  choked  down  a  sob  to  smile  in 
the  girl's  eyes. 

Mr.  Foster  was  waiting  for  them  in  the 
library.  They  were  late.  He  had  been 
thinking. 

"Well,  I'm  tremendously  glad  you're 
back,"  he  said  brightly,  kissing  his  wife,  and 
then  he  took  Gertrude  in  his  arms.  "  Sweet- 
heart," he  said,  smiling  down  into  her  eyes, 
"if  I  seemed  harsh  to-day,  I'm  sorry.  I 
only  did  it  because  I  thought  it  was  for 
your  own  good.     You  know  that." 

"Why,  papa,"  she  said,  with  her  cheek 
against  his  own;  "of  course  I  know.  Of 
course  I  understand.  We  all  did.  You 
don't  mind  if  we  did  not  see  your  way? 
You—" 

"  The  girl  is  dead,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Foster, 
touching  her  husband's  arm,  "and — let  us 
not  talk  of  that  now,  to  —  to  these,  our 
children.  They  want  your — they  want  to 
ask — they  are  going  to  be  married  in  ten 
weeks?" 

"  The  dickens ! "  exclaimed  her  father,  and 


fl>rag  H?ou,  Sir,  TMbose  ©auflbterT  183 

held  Gertrude  at  arm's  length.  f?Is  that  ho. 
Sweetheart?"-  There  was  a  twinkle  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  lifted  her  chin  with  one  finger 
and  then  kissed  her.  f  The  dickens !  Well, 
all  I've  got  to  say  is,  I'm  sorry  for  old 
Martin  and  the  rest  of  us,''  and  he  grasped 
Selden  Avery's  hand.  "I  hope  you'll  give 
up  that  legislative  foolishness  pretty  soon 
and  come  back  to  town  and  live  with  civil- 
ized people  in  a  civilized  way.  It'll  be 
horribly  lonely  in  New  York  without  Ger- 
trude, but  —  oh,  well,  its  nature's  way. 
We're  all  a  lot  of  robbers.  I  stole  this  little 
woman  away  from  her  father,  and  I'm 
an  unrepentent  thief  yet,  am  I  not?"  and 
he  kissed  his  wife  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  feels  that  life  is  well  worth  living,  no 
matter  what  its  penalties,  so  long  as  she 
might  be  not  the  least  of  them. 


THE    ARENA    PUBLISHING    COflPANYS 

Select  List  of  Standard  Books. 

MEDITATIONS    IN    MOTLEY. 

A  Bundle  of  Papers  Imbued  with  the  Sobriety  of  Midnight. 
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1 


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Rockford,  111.,  Republican  says:  "It  well  deserves  a  permanent  place  in  litera- 
ture." The  Commercial  Advertiser,  New  York,  says:  "  Like  all  the  other  works 
of  the  same  author,  it  is  a  tale  that  displays  thought  that  is  not  hackneyed  and 
breadth  of  judgment  not  common  to  either  sex." 

YOUNG    WEST. 

A  Sequel  to  "  Looking  Backward." 

By  Rabbi  Solomon  Schindlek.     Price,  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

This  is  not  only  a  supplement  to  but  the  complement  of  the  famous  national- 
istic document,  "  Looking  Backward."  It  is  intended  primarily  to  answer  the 
many  questions  which  are  asked  about  the  practical  workings  of  nationalism  and 
socialism.  How  will  nationalists  arrange  for  this  or  that  emergency?  Will  people 
work  without  compensation?  Will  they  not  prefer  pleasant  occupations  to  hard 
labor,  and  who  is  going  to  be  the  drudge?  How  will  you  deal  with  criminals, 
with  gluttons,  with  the  improvident  or  the  lazy?  Will  the  family  be  preserved, 
and  if  so,  how?  Will  there  be  religion  at  that  time,  and  if  so,  which?  Will  a 
paternal  government  not  be  likely  to  drift  into  a  kind  of  despotism  such  as  the 
world  has  never  before  seen?  Can  personal  liberty  co-exist  with  an  industrial 
army?  The  reminiscences  of  Young  West  touch  upon  every  phase  of  this  com- 
munity life  in  detail. 

THE    HISTORY    OF    BROOK    FARM. 

By  Dr.  John  T.  Codmax.      Price,  cloth,  $2.00. 

A  fascinating  subject'  for  American  readers,  for  the  wonderful  group  of  great 
men  whose  names  are  associated  in  American  literature  and  biography  with 
Brook  Farm  make  this  social  experiment  unique  in  the  social  movements  of  the 
world.  There  has  been  no  adequate  and  complete  history  of  Brook  Farm, 
although  a  great  deal  of  scattered  writing  has  appeared  on  the  subject.  Dr. 
Codman's  book  will  be  the  standard  history  of  the  subject.  He  gives  the  com- 
plete historical  record,  with  the  fascinating  touches  of  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
all  the  men  and  methods  and  aims  and  daily  incidents  of  the  community. 

JUST    PLAIN    FOLKS. 

By  E.  Stillman  Doubleday.     Price,  paper,  50  cents;   cloth,  $1.25. 

The  stuff  of  comedies  and  tragedies  and  stories  was  once  supposed  to  be  found 
only  among  the  aristocratic  and  well-to-do  classes;  but  some  of  our  modern 
novelists  have  gone  to  the  common,  every-day  life  for  their  heroes  and  heroines 
and  incidents,  and  this  novel  avowedly  deals  with  "Just  Plain  Folks,"  It  is  an 
interesting,  moving  story,  filled  with  both  humor  and  pathos. 

2 


CIVILIZATION'S    INFERNO. 

By  B.  O.  Flower.     Price,  paper,  50  cents;   cloth,  $1.00. 

The  economist  of  the  future,  who  expects  to  receive  any  attention  and  respect 
from  thinking  men,  unlike  Adam  Smiih  and  Ricardo,  who  lived  in  a  credulous 
and  uncritical  time,  must  deal  with  FACTS  and  not  mere  unreal  abstractions  to 
which  society  shall  adapt  itself.  "Civilization's  Inferno  "  contains  a  bundle  of  those 
facts  with  which  the  political  economists  of  our  day  niust  reckon.  Economic 
dogmas  which  take  no  account  of  human  nature  and  human  lives  will  not  hold 
water  through  the  coming  years,  with  the  changes  wrought  in  public  opinion  by 
the  liberalizing  of  religion,  by  the  discoveries  of  natural  science,  and  the  forces  of 
popular  education  and  the  ballot.  This  is  a  bundle  of  facts.  It  contains:  (1) 
Vivid  pen  pictures  of  life  in  the  slums  of  Boston,  made  from  the  author's  personal 
investigation.  (2)  Pictures  of  slum  life  in  New  York  and  other  great  cities.  (3) 
Portrayals  of  social  conditions  of  urban  life  to-day.  (4)  It  is  rich  in  suggestive 
hints  both  as  to  palliative  and  fundamental  measures;  for  the  author  views  these 
subjects  broadly,  and  does  not  believe  in  leaving  the  multitude  to  sink  while  great 
economic  changes  are  being  wrought.  This  book  will  prove  indispensable  to  all 
persons  interested  in  the  great  social  and  economic  agitations  of  the  day. 


LESSONS    LEARNED    FROM    OTHER    LIVES. 

By  B.  O.  Flower.     Price)  paper,  50  cents;   cloth,  $1.00. 

It  is  especially  necessary  in  our  day  that  the  dignity  and  worth  and  possibilities 
of  human  character  should  be  insisted  upon,  when  all  the  old  ideals  and  standards 
of  respect  and  honor  have  fallen  away.  There  is  no  sort  of  reading  to-day  which 
is  more  calculated  to  shake  young  men  and  women  out  of  a  mental  and  moral 
lethargy  of  desperation,  which  spreads  like  an  epidemic  through  a  state  governed 
by  a  social  and  moral  code  of  expediency,  than  biography. 

"  Lessons  Learned  from  Other  Lives  "  gives  the  key  to  the  author's  purpose  in 
its  title.  It  shows  the  spirit  in  which  Mr.  Flower  has  approached  his  task. 
There  are  fourteen  biographies  in  this  volume,  dealing  with  the  lives  of  Seneca 
and  Epictetus,  Joan  of  Arc,  Henry  Clay,  Edwin  Booth  and  Joseph  Jefferson,  John 
Howard  Payne,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  Alice  and  Phcebe  Cary 
and  John  G.  Whittier,  Alfred  Russel  Wallace  and  Victor  Hugo.  / 


THE    RISE    OF   THE    SWISS    REPUBLIC. 

By  W.  D.  McCrackan,  A.  M.     Price,  cloth  extra,  $2.00. 

Of  all  the  confederations  of  history,  Switzerland  bears  the  closest  resemblance 
in  institutions  to  the  United  States,  so  that  the  history  of  the  Swiss  republic  is,  or 
should  be,  of  the  greatest  interest  to  the  democracy  of  the  United  States.  The 
issue  constantly  at  stake,  throughout  the  history  of  the  Swiss  confederation,  has 
been  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  portentous  for  good  or  evil  with  which  human 
nature  has  had  to  grapple  —  the  question  of  self-government.  In  these  later  days 
Switzerland  has  become  the  standard  bearer  in  all  reforms  which  make  for  direct 
democracy  and  pure  politics.  Her  historical  development  ought,  therefore,  to  be 
fully  known  and  appreciated  by  all  Americans  who  are  interested  in  good  citizen- 
ship, good  government  and  the  averting  of  those  evils  which  threaten  to  engulf 
the  republic. 

8 


IS  THIS  YOUR  SON,  MY  LORD? 

By  Helen  H.  Gardener.     Price,  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

One  of  the  most  powerful  and  realistic  novels  written  by  an  American  author 
in  this  literary  generation.  It  is  a  terrible  expose  of  conventional  immorality  and 
hypocrisy  in  modern  society.  Every  nigh-minded  woman  who  desires  the  true 
progression  of  her  sex  will  want  to  touch  the  inspiriting  power  of  this  book. 

No  braver  voice  was  ever  raised,  no  clearer  note  was  ever  struck,  for  woman's 
honor  and  childhood's  purity. —  The  Vanguard,  Chicago. 

A  novel  of  power,  and  one  which  will  stir  up  a  breeze  unless  certain  hypocriti- 
cal classes  are  wiser  than  they  usually  are.  —  Chicago   Times. 

It  comes  very  close  to  any  college  man  who  has  kept  his  eyes  open.  When  we 
finish  we  may  say,  not,  "  Is  This  Your  Son,  My  Lord  ?"  but  "  Is  it  I  "?  —  Nassau 
Literary  Magazine,  Princeton. 


MARGARET    SALISBURY. 

By  Mary  Holland  Lee.     Price,  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

The  setting  of  the  story  is  vivid  and  picturesque,  bridging  the  period  of  our 
Civil  War,  and  its  touches  upon  New  England  and  Virginia  life  are  full  of  local 
color,  provincial  phraseology  and  dramatic  power.  The  tale  opens  with  a  descrip- 
tion of  Three  Oaks,  a  fine  Virginia  estate,  the  fate  of  whose  owners  is  curiously 
interwoven  with  the  three  gigantic  trees  from  which  the  place  receives  its  name. 
Mrs.  Lee  strikes  the  note  of  heredity  firmly,  and  the  most  tragic  complication  of 
her  plot  hinges  upon  the  unlawful  use  of  hypnotic  power.  The  world  of  books  is 
far  too  poor  in  well-told  stories  of  our  war,  to  accord  anything  less  than  enthusi- 
astic welcome  to  this  latest  comer. 


EVOLUTION  AND  THE  IMMANENT  GOD. 

By  Rev.  William  F.  English.     Price,  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

This  is  a  new  and  important  work  on  the  natural  Theology  of  Evolution. 

There  are  many  among  our  foremost  theological  thinkers  who  readily  accept 
evolution  inone  form  or  another,  and  some  who  advocate  it  with  enthusiasm,  in 
the  belief  that  it  affords  important  aid  to  the  apprehension  and  elucidation  of 
Christian  truth.  It  now  seems  possible  that  evolution,  or  its  philosophy,  may  be 
found  a  friend  to  faith,  and  may  even  be  used  in  clearing  the  ground  for  the  ac- 
ceptance of  Christianity,  and  the  upbuilding  of  the  structure  of  faith  upon  the  one 
foundation.  It  is  the  purpose  of  the  author  of  "  Evolution  and  the  Immanent 
God  "  to  offer  a  few  suggestions  along  this  line  of  thought.  This  is  the  keynote 
of  Mr.  English's  thought  in  "  Evolution  and  the  Immanent  God,"  which  will  reveal 
and  broaden  the  domain  of  Providence  for  thousands  of  Christians  touched  with 
the  doubt  and  perplexities  of  our  time. 

3 


"A  THOUGHTLESS  YES." 

By  Helen  H.  Gardener. 
SOME    PRESS    COMMENTS. 

New  York  Tribune 

Marked  by  a  quaint  philosophy,  shrewd,  sometimes  pungent  reflection,  each  one  possesses 
enough  purely  literary  merit  to  make  its  way  and  hold  its  own.  "The  Lady  of  the  Club"  is 
indeed  a  terrible  study  of  social  abuses  and  problems,  and  most  of  the  others  suggest  more  in  the 
same  direction. 

Pittsburg  Bulletin 

All  the  stories  are  distinguished  by  a  remarkable  strength,  both  of  thought  and  language. 

Boston   Transcript 

Will  do  considerable  to  stir  up  thought,  and  breed  a  "  divine  discontent"  with  vested  wrong 
and  intrenched  injustice.     The  stories  are  written  in  a  bright,  vivacious  style. 

Boston  Herald 

She  appreciates  humor  and  makes  others  appreciate  it.  All  of  the  stories,  whether  humorous 
or  pathetic,  have  a  touch  of  realism,  and  are  written  clearly  and  forcibly. 

New  York  Independent 

Bright  and  light,  gloomy  and  strange,  cleverly  imagined,  fairly  amusing,  tragic  and  interest- 
ing, by  turns. 

Chicago   Times 

Thoughtfully  conceived,  and  beautifully  written. 

San  Francisco  Call 

Each  story  i<  a  literary  gem. 

Portland  (Me.)   Transcript 

Full  of  wit  and  epigram;  very  enjoyable  and  profitable  reading.  Just  long  enough  to  induce 
the  wish  that  they  were  a  little  longer  —  an  excellent  feature  in  a  story. 

Unity  (Chicago) 

Helen  Gardener  puts  moral  earnestness  and  enthusiasm  for  humanity  into  her  stories.  Even 
her  pessimism  is  better  than  the  nerveless  superficiality  of  her  rivals. 

Charlestown  (S.  C.J  News 

Illustrate  the  indubitable  fact  that  the  times  are  out  of  joint. 

The  Arena 

Exceptionally  excellent.  Convey  a  moral  lesson  in  a  manner  always  vivid,  invariably  forci- 
ble, sometimes  startling. 

N.    Y.  Herald 

The  author  is  not  morbid;  she  is  honestly  though  ful.  The  mystery  and  consequences  of 
heredity  is  the  motive  of  some  of  the  strongest. 

Milwaukee  Journal 

With  a  terseness  and  originality  positively  refreshing.  On  subjects  to  suit  the  thoughtful, 
sad  or  gay. 

N.  Y.   Truth 

Have  made  their  mark  as  new,  original  and  strong.  She  could  not  write  ungracefully  if  she 
tried,  and  this  book  is  like  a  varied  string  of  pearls,  opals  and  diamonds. 


Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 


ARENA  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


"  Pushed  by  Unseen  Hands." 

By  Helen  H.  Gardener. 


PRESS    NOTICES    OF    FIRST    EDITION. 


Boston   Traveller 

Must  add  to  her  already  enviable  reputation.  These  stories  have  the  marks  of  a  brilliant 
genius;  they  are  original  in  style  and  design,  and  are  a  new  thing  in  literature.  Realistic  in  the 
extreme,  they  are  at  the  same  time  delightfully  artistic. 

New  York  Times 

The  book  is  clever,  dramatic,  and  in  a  literary  sense  has  much  merit. 

Kansas  City  Times 

Helen  Gardener  is  the  most  fearless  motive  fictionist  of  these  times,  and  has  given  time, 
thought  and  revelation  to  some  phases  of  society  hitherto  clothed.  .  .  .  All  her  writings  are 
wholesome  and  profitable  reading. 

Omaha  Bee 

Highly  commended  from  a  scientific  point  of  view  by  recognized  scientific  authority  .  .  . 
charming  method  of  giving  to  her  readers  pleasure  with  profit. 

The  Baltimore  American 

The  terseness  of  expression,  the  delicacy  of  humor,  and  clever  dramatic  ability  that  have 
characterized  some  of  her  earlier  efforts,  are  equally  striking  in  this  later  work,  which  quickens 
the  reader's  thoughts  toward  a  channel  of  science  yearly  receiving  more  and  more  attention. 

Boston  Globe 

So  realistic  as  to  leave  no  doubt  of  their  actuality.  .  .  .  The  stories  are  told  with  no  ap- 
parent purpose  to  adorn  a  moral,  and  are  the  very  best  fiction,  yet  no  intelligent  person  can  finish 
the  book  without  wishing  to  relieve  the  evils  which  surround  high  and  low  alike. 

St.  Louis  Republic 

Bright,  pointed  and  full  of  interest.     A  book  such  as  this     ...     is  welcome. 

Grand  Rapids  (Mich.)  Eagle 

A  book  destined  to  meet  a  large  audience,  not  only  because  of  its  author's  fame,  but  because 
it  has  merit. 

Chicago  Times 

Vivid  and  artistic.     The  author  is  a  woman  of  remarkable  gifts  and  of  superb  courage. 

New  Orleans  Picayune 

Fascinating  to  the  imagination.  Miss  Gardener's  touch  is  very  exquisite,  and  she  draws  her 
mental  pictures  with  the  hand  of  a  master,  showing  in  a  few  rapid  lines  more  sharp  and  attractive 
characteristics  than  many  authors  can. in  labored  pages. 

Inter-Ocean  (Chicago) 

The  stories  are  aboundingly  interesting,  both  from  the  manner  of  telling,  and  from  their  sug- 
gestive thoughts.  The  author  seems  always  to  write  for  some  definite  purpose,  and  that  purpose 
to  defend  the  right,  protect  the  weak  and  helpless,  and  make  the  world  wiser  and  better.  Great 
wrongs  could  not  be  more  keenly  rebuked,  or  great  truths  more  forcibly  stated,  than  by  these  te^se 
stories.  They  are  graphic  in  their  style,  elegant  in  their  literary  construction,  and  convey  moral 
lessons  full  of  health  and  life. 


Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 


ARENA  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000  251936    1 


